Between Ashes
by CatarinaK
Summary: Ki-Yong is a bard from a distant land he calls "Shun". He holds a secret - he is cursed by an ancient bloodline to see the future. Somehow, he ends in a beach in Essos. The Khaleesi wants to see what the future holds for her, when everyone is uncertain. But when Ki-Yong predicts another "Dragon" will lust for her, what will she answer? Crossover.
1. Prologue - two strangers

**Disclaimer** **: I am not a hardcore fan of G. R. R. Martin's work, but I have read a few pages - in my country, the two first books were split into four. So, yes, I know a little of Daenerys Targarien. The rest is picked by maps I have found in google. If there is any discrepancy, please tell me. What I have noticed is that G. R. R. Martin barely focuses in the cultural aspect of the other races that do not live in Westeros. Search Tengger Cavalry for an example of "Throat" singing done by Mongolian artists. These guys mix metal sounds with their traditional sounds.**

A sweet melody came out of the Morin Khuur, the box-shaped instrument Ki-Yong used to play. He knew the _Dothraki_ were a tribe more dedicated to the art of war than music. Where he came, there was no such things as Noble Houses fighting against each other. At least, he was certain the blood from the Ku-naira had all soaked the many noble houses in Shunamari, and many ghosts haunted the wild pines of the mountain-filled land. Swaying the instrument which many Onisamatzeka called a "Eastern Erh", Ki-Yong played. Many people argued Hyasuko could make a tiny _Erhu_ when playing Gemmya _Murin_ Khoor. But Hyasuko as not there and Ki-Yong was the only man in that small _Khal_ who knew the music of his land. With the Northern Desert as mental picture, he began to sing about the majestic variety Shunamari was composed. "Wô Ai", such a simple phrase in the standard Onisamatzeka dialect. Yet, when sung with Kato Ki-Yong's roughened, mysterious and guttural singing, it gained a Gemmya mysticism.

The women in the _Khal_ were surprised. Ki-Yong could feel their eyes as he played with the simple and home-made arch the " _Erh",_ making his voice coming from many sides as he played with passion the three-string instrument. His eyes, a cold pair of piercing dark brown almonds, shone in the firelight as he sung.

He could hear the panting breaths, he could touch with his gaze the goosebumps the music provoked.

 _I love your exuberant seedlings in spring,_

 _I love your bountiful golden fruits in autumn,_

 _I love your blue waves rolling across Yotang Bay,_

 _I love your white snowflakes flying over the North land,_

 _I love your endless forests,_

 _I love your grandiose mountains…_

 _Oh, my beautiful Land of white pines,_

 _How I love you._

A man with a tanned, brownish skin smiled as he applauded alongside the many people that consisted of the group, the _Khal_ as the _Dothraki_ called it. Ki-Yong had had been found unconscious, laying in a beach for over three weeks. The man was the one who had had found him. Yet, Ki-Yong had never discovered his name. This particularly strange man had two big and piercing brown eyes. He had a scar like two deep claw marks. Not only he towered over all the Dothraki but the _tattoos_ and facial paintings were different. Being a traveller himself Ki-Yong was unsure what to think. The man carried a large battle-axe similar to those Ki-Yong had seen in the West. Black cardamom and black oudh hovered the man, and a small tone of sulphur. Oh, the traveller was quite a charmer, he had flirted with a few _Dothraki_ women before Ki-Yong had yet to regain his strength. Yet, the man with the darkened hood, the facial painting with an eye wreathed in red flames was eerie. As though the ancient magic that pulsated in Ki-Yong's veins responded to whatever sorcery was bounded in those markings. Dark magic calling to dark magic, an invisible magnetic force was pulling the man to the bard. Whatever it was, it made the bard's wrinkled, olive skin shudder. Ki-Yong's eyes narrowed whenever the man was caught in his camp of vision.

A silvery ring shimmered faintly in the man's left glove.

« Ki-Yong, although your rhymes sound quite the fantastic web of exotic lands, I cannot help to wonder if you have been born here in another life. »

« Me? Ha! » Ki-Yong laughed merrily, the deep and sultry voice echoing in the camp, making a few women blushing. « That is an amusing tale you have there, westerner. I will never be a _Dothraki,_ but I am no Onisamatzeka. I am and will always be, pardon the overused phrase, a stranded man on the beach with my _Morin Khoor._ »

« Have you heard of the new _Khaleesi,_ the recent wife of the Khal? »

« What about her? Does she have the same lost, wandering look as some of the women here? Back where I come from, women are unafraid to wield a sword and there have been many proud, strong queens. »

« No. She is a beauty indeed, but a dazzling one at that! Blond hair, as the same colour as some cups made for the kings, and two beautiful sapphires as eyes. » The apparently older man murmured.

« That is an overused set of metaphors. My dear man, you must take note of those and practice new sentences and verses. One does not live a life of luxury and wanders with golden silks with such horrid, abhorrent and flavourless poetry. »

« By the way... I am to accompany her throughout the journey to the witches the _Dothraki_ esteem. Will you accompany us? »

« You! I do not even know your name! You are probably some stranded foreigner, like me. How would you know her? »

The man winked. As he did so, a chill climbed to the bard's spine - no, the man's eyes were very abnormal. Now, they shined like two red gems.

« I might not know her personally, but my Master does. »

* * *

A mockingbird from the Essos continent had adventured to the Far East. He had reached the Mirkwood but he found it too dark and oozing with black magic, so he decided to rest on the beautiful mountain resting with its back in Rhovanion. Passing through an opening in the mountain's land, the mockingbird decided to have a small bath…but the more he flew and soared across the grand chambers, the more he was convinced this have been an unwise decision. He did see many and vast natural pools created by the river's spring. The reek of dragon's breath had corrupted the mineral water. A lethal stench of venomous gases heated the pools, glistening like gold in the dimness. Grown men would have drowned, for he could feel and smell an undernote of rotting bones. Instinctively the bird avoided those. Looking longingly at the pools would do him no good, and so he decided to explore upstairs. It was scalding hot on the flight of enormous stairs, so he could not land in any. He barely used the candleholders, for although a little mockingbird with little sight, he was a nocturnal and morning bird. A warm glow came from the stairs. As he went forward, it grew and grew, until there was no doubt about it. A red light became more like blood seeping from ancient stone. Wisps of silver and gilded smoke began to hover all around.

Any small, tiny bird could have sneaked into these narrow entrances, no matter how decadent and exposed to the erosion of a dragon's living. No bird who lived in those woods would dare to. But the little mockingbird was unaware of the dangers. He had never seen a living dragon. He was curious. Only when he heard a sound like the grumbling, rumbling thunder the mockingbird trembled in mid-flight.

Placing his tiny legs on a small stone salience in one of the many majestic and monumental pillars, he glanced…And gave a tiny yelping cry. For even if he was a few feet from the creature, he could see what many Humans in the west thought a legend: a huge red and golden dragon. The deep crimson tail coiled around himself, the dragon lay asleep. He had not noticed the many golden coins, the coins he had seen many humans trade for food or even, ones of their kind. A sea of golden coins and other seemingly Human objects made of gold underneath a dragon's hide. Why, two of the mockingbird could have made one of the large scales in the dragon's neck. The little bird had no idea why a dragon would want for such things, things that could have belonged to Humans.

Suddenly, an animal like a huge tarantula had walked not a few feet near the mockingbird. Perhaps she had thought the risk was worth the wait, for it was drooling from the arm-sized fangs. The bird was frozen with fear, for he could hear the lean legs approaching him. It was the size of a human!

Before the spider tried to eat the little bird, a gigantic red claw took hold of it. It was faster than the bird could have imagined. Although the spider tried to struggle against the dragon's front leg, it was no use. He stamped on the end of the tarantula's back, and then his jaws descended onto the small prey. Two cold and red eyes nearly mesmerised the bird, until he could escape from them, shaking his trembling head. The mockingbird instinctively flew as far as he could…but it seemed the dragon had only wished to eat the spider.

« Why have you come? » The dragon glanced at the mockingbird with the eye ridges raised.

Oh, the mockingbird did not want to answer this evil creature. A creak in the stone made the bird turn away, the black eyes horrified how there was a few blood dripping from the dragon's jaws. However, the dragon had placed one of the huge red and gleaming eyes into him, and a great will to speak overcame the poor bird.

« I wanted to rest… I have come far from the West. There is so much noise with Humans warring against each other. »

« Ploughs, trees being uprooted to make room for small agriculture, battles of mortal beings against another race of mortal beings…I have heard it many times. » The red dragon rumbled with a dreadful and disgusted tone.

« F-f-forgive me, o magnificent king of the skies… I have never meant-Never meant to disturb your sleep. I was thinking, even with your age and experience, you have not met every kind of Human! There is a man who has a charming voice. He lives in a tent. Have you heard about a girl who cries tears of nostalgia at hearing songs of a language she cannot understand? These humans-I know they are cruel but they cannot be that bad, if they love as you and-»

An impatient swing of the dragon's tail made the bird shudder and yelp once again. The arrow-pointed tail had been a few inches too close to throw him to a wall. A few coins rolled away, jingling and rattling with a high, shrilling noise.

He spoke again, a cruel amusement in his impossibly deep voice:

« Come now, you're not dead as of yet. Humour me. What is so important about the capability the mortals have of "loving"? »

The mockingbird stammered:

« I have seen her! I have seen her forgiving people who would have been accused of the most horrid things. I have heard her crying tears for a man all his brethren thought dead but-he is still alive. I have heard her missing someone who has never worth the mercy she gave out of sibling love. Many think she is still a child, a princess, but in the heart of hearts, she is a queen, experiencing an exiled queen's grief. Platinum hair gracing the tearful but inhuman beauty, one might say she descended from dragon and elf alike. As she struggles to command the army, she is the queen with the heart of a dragon. »

« That must be an interesting creature. » The red dragon said in a cryptic tone, neither too mocking, nor too gentle.

« Little mockingbird: would you satisfy an old dragon's curiosity? »

« I would do anything to get out of here. »

At this, the dragon smirked slyly, the teeth larger than any man could be.

« Then, depart to the northwest and continue to watch the Princess with platinum hair. I must be mistaken; perhaps she is as any innocent princess I have met in my younger days. »

* * *

 ** _Poor mockingbird... I kind of feel although the style in my writing is different, it is meant to be. I mean, Tolkien's literary style is different and a bird's perspective is different from Humans. I intended to place Smaug early but I had only the inspiration for my OC. ^^;_**


	2. When the Bard is called

**_Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Ki-Yong, the arrogant sorcerer and bard._**

 ** _Edit: well, I think you all want some more revealing details about the characters and more Tolkien characters._**

It was a frigid morning. Ki-Yong awoke with the raven hair being washed by a Dothraki woman. Startled, he tried to speak a little of the Gemmya, from the so-called "Horse Empire". Since these people respected their horses so much and were a nomadic race, as were the people his father had blood from the mother side, they might be another tribe of Gemmya. It was in vain, the dialect he spoke was received with a giggle and a confused, but apologising glance of the woman. Although her tunic was similar to what a poor, ragged Gemmya widow would have used, she spoke a different language.

Glancing at her, Ki-Yong pointed to a flask.

« Wash me with this. » He said. « It has olive and white flower oil. »

« _Jin?_ » She asked, holding a green flask that dangled from Ki-Yong's leather belt.

Ki-Yong panicked - the woman in white was holding a flask filled with Gong-Tau worms.

« _Bù, Bù, Bù-she_! **Yàda! Yàda! Tondemonai!** It's not that at all! » He snarled, snatching the flask from the woman's hand, with only a towel around his head and another covering the male organs.

She fell to her knees, mumbling in a tearful voice what Ki-Yong assumed to a be a string of formal apologies. Her voice seemed young, although the face was covered partially with a veil. _These Dothraki_ have more _similarities with the Alwaelli Tribes_ than _with my grandmother's people._

Feeling the sunken and dark olive cheeks burning with embarrassment for yelling at the poor woman, Ki-Yong sighed.

Placing one hand in a soothing, slow manner around the young woman's hands, he spoke in a silken tone in Ku-naira:

« Oh... There, there, young lady. I would not want you harmed. These are dangerous. I have no idea how the man who found me managed to find those! My belt must have been tightened around my waist too tightly. » He laughed a nervous and uncomfortable chuckle.

The woman's hands suddenly felt very hot. Ki-Yong immediately realised why: she was blushing underneath the veil, the small streaks of sun that pierced through the tent were enough to make out round and silken cheeks.

« Yes...You definitely do not look like a _Gemmya_ at all. Give me a moment. »

For a few minutes, it seemed like the young widow understood him completely, for she nodded, the black eyes glinting with a relieved expression.

Reaching for the hair soap he had made, Ki-Yong placed it on the woman's hands.

« There. Now you can resume your work. »

« Oh...» It was the only answer he got from her. He could almost imagine the young widow's lips brought in a large and astonished shape.

Struggling not to laugh at the young woman's inexperience, he leaned against the wooden basin, the head protected by a cushion and a cloth the woman had placed.

When the young woman (Ki-Yong now guessed she was in her early twenties) was massassing the scalp, he asked:

« What do you think of my voice? »

She gasped, but continued working.

« Yes, I suppose it is different from the other men. I am told in Shun to be more forward than the common man. »

« No. » The young widow murmured in a timid imitation of his Ku-naira. Her hands felt hot but refreshing against Ki-Yong's neck « No... »

« By your voice, I think you liked my songs. Oh, if only I knew your language...»

A stammer echoed from the young widow's lips. She was starting to shake.

« No! » She shook her head nervously.

« You seem to understand Ku-naira a little. Are you learning it from the other foreign man? I have only followed your _Khal_ for a week. »

She nodded, but the absentminded expression in the eyes indicated she only understood a few sentences.

« I wonder how is it possible he can communicate with me. »

Before the young widow could say anything else, the rustle of someone drawing back the door curtains from the tent made her flinch.

The man in the red and black tunic appeared, as though he was floating, the streaks of sun making his eyes shimmer like amber spheres.

« Ah.. I see Dovaïna has not finished doing your hair, Ki-Yong. » The voice with a strange, otherworldly accent echoed. Perhaps Ki-Yong's voice would seem otherworldly as well, but the man's voice seemed...Wrong, as though the language he originally spoke was rotten and oozed Black Magic.

« Dovaïna? Does not seem like something the Dothraki speak. »

« When a wife loses her husband, the _Dothraki_ take her the right to wear a name. She is just called by the name of servant. They think it would have been her duty to commit suicide. »

Ki-Yong took a pitiful glance towards the young widow. He had heard about the costume, not only in the Onisamatzeka people, but also in the Eskari, Kuskari and Ku-naira villages and towns.

« I see. So you took her as a servant. »

The hooded man glared at Ki-Yong, but merely snorted:

« No one in the _Khal_ would want her, even if the _Khaleesi_ herself would like to. If she were married to a known _Khal,_ she would have been brought to the _Dosh Khaleen. They_ are a council of crones that preside over the city of _Vaes Dothrak. But_ she is not. This is the world we are living. »

« Oh, I have no doubts about it. Odd costume of making superior hierarchical women released of the burden, but who I am to judge? »

« Actually, the girl managed to make me a servant within the tent where the _Khaleesi_ and the Khalaasar live. I am in debt with her. Ki-Yong, you must never forget this: the Master I serve is never the ill-stricken Khal Drogo or the Khalaasars. In time, you will know His name. But now, let us enjoy the sun and make the most of our temporary stay. I hear the _Khaleesi_ is searching for an entertainment. Her poor husband is so wounded we must serve them to rise their spirits. »

« You want me to play for them?

At this simple but stunned question, the hooded man motioned with the head for the _Morin._ The strange man with the scarred face smiled a wolfish grin, the eyes glinting in a cryptic expression, one hand caressing the ring. If there was a time Ki-Yong thought there was no more frightening man than himself, he had the proof that it was not so. This hooded man with the scar and the tattoo of the fierce eye wreathed in flames seemed inhuman enough.

 _« I know_ you are not that fond of cheerful tales and epics of Dragons being slaughtered by Humans. But there must be something in your repertoire that speaks of mighty dragons. Daenerys holds a special place in her heart for them. I cannot help to oblige her. » He purred the last sentence.

« Why? » Ki-Yong hissed with an aggravated tone.

« Because her family's - not Khal Drogo's - has as an emblem a multiple-headed dragon. Beautiful little symbol. »

Unconsciously, the bard reached for a scar on his right ear, a blackened and half bitten part of the fluffed ear.

« Dragons? Of course I am not fond of dragons, I fear them! » Ki-Yong muttered in a snide reply. « Back where I come from, they are intelligent enough to speak, and they are one of the most excelled magic users. Some can even shape-shift into Human forms. But they are powerful enough to burn my ears. I never play in a place where dragons rule. »

« Is there any dragon in your land that you have met and found pleasant enough? »

« Oh...There is one. » At this phrase, the young widow raised her head with a questioning look, the eyebrows raised in surprise. « The most level-headed dragon I ever met. I could sing to the Lady Khaleesi about my "brother"'s love for a young blond noblewoman. »

Raising his head, the stranger's eyes focused for one moment, in the Dovaïna, then on Ki-Yong, the only piece of hair he wore dangling from a red, sharp, spiral-shaped shoulder-pad.

« Are you saying there are _intelligent_ dragons in those lands of yours? » The man murmured, a fascinated glint in the yellowish and red eyes.

« He, he, he. I knew you were not a common Human. » The man very much growled at Ki-Yong's knowing look. « Perhaps an ancient elf; hiding those sharp ears from the _Dothraki_ might deceive them, but you cannot fool Kato Ki-Yong. Yes, I have seen the "elves" from the old Shunrasen lands. What are you doing so far from-! »

Suddenly, the man clawed and took a firm, lethal grasp on Ki-Yong's neck, teeth pulled back in a murderous expression. A gasp echoed from Dovaïna's lips and she screamed, jumping at her master's height and begging him in a stream of Dothraki words.

« It...seems...I...hit a nerve, haven't I? » Ki-Yong smirked a fanged smile, the voice ragged and coughing back a few drops of blood.

A few minutes passed, with the young servant whimpering, her hand nearly breaking from the foreign hooded man's strength.

« Remember: my Master is not Khal Drogo! » The man hissed with a deadly tone. Dovaïna shuddered, a look of horror written in the widened eyes. Ki-Yong merely shrugged weakly. He had seen the monster hidden in the facade of calm traveller long before her. No, this man was not Human at all. No Human in any land could have manhandled Ki-Yong this easily and pulled him to a wall.

When he saw that Ki-Yong said nothing else, the foreign hooded man growled and shoved Ki-Yong to the closest bed. Ki-Yong instantly pulled himself back, groaning and growling as well, the two tails of a fox shimmering in an orange light, making the tent a mix of blood and orange. The two precious indigo horns Ki-Yong had hidden were now in display.

« Never compare me to those woodland creatures! I expect you and little Dovaïna in the main Khalaasar tent in half an hour. Dress adequately! » He underlined the last words with a growl.

The girl sighed.

« _Zhavorsa!_ »

« What did you say? »

She gestured at the small pattern Ki-Yong's saviour wore in a leather boot. It was a red and multiple-headed dragon.

* * *

 **Third Age Year 1090**

In the palace of Lothlórien, a wary Galadriel glanced to the dazzling dark _elleth_ , caught in shackles. How the two _elleth_ grown and aged. One from the very same colour of the light she represented. Clad in the dark brown and black - very same colour the main guise she had worn in the West - the dark _elleth_ had passed many wooden and melancholic bridges.

Celeborn widened the blue eyes at the taller _elleth_.

« You...You are a _flâd-ahuin. »_ A skin-changer. Brassenyl had been named many things, but the ancient Sindarin name for the kind of magic she did was not one of them. She was the mockingbird who had returned. Skin-changers were cursed - some thought a blessing - by Valar and Maya to change their appearance, or even transform into many things - even mask one's gender. Perhaps this was why they were so feared by all the races in old Arda and in the Middle-Earth. She could change into a snake. Often she took the guise of a poor woman to hide in a world where barely no one believed in Old Gods or Elves. Glancing at the small marking with the glowing hammer and the blessing of Eru Iluvatar, the songstress of many shapes laughed.

Her eyes were that of a glowing silver, the dark and short hair nearly shaved to form a spiral. The bow she carried was made of something Galadriel could only identify as a dragon's bone. Perhaps this had been the aspect some _Ùmanyar_ had taken. She glanced once again at Galadriel in silence, for the spine-made flute the woman wore in the neck contrasted. The two turquoise and silver eyes seemed tired, older than time, as the small silver diadem glimmered in the dark brow. Stately and cold the old _elleth_ looked and in every eye she glanced all saw a glimpse of curiosity, fascination and fear.

Brassenyl chuckled, a sound which was like the keen, soft choir of bells.

« How long has it been, Galadriel? Four thousand, ten thousand years? I have been exiled to a darker place in the West, darker than the shadows that haunt these woods. Since the very separation of the Years of the Trees, I have wondered in this world. I was a child, o Lady. No Elf, no woodland house would offer this-abomination the opportunity for a shelter. Some even dare to call me a-what was it? Oh, yes, the Child of Mòrgoth. I sailed stormy seas »

« Why have you returned, and how come your family was not punished by the Valar? » Galadriel spoke in a calm voice.

« We have lived in a place of the North, a cold, desolate place. No Child of Ilùvatar should have to endure that. »

« Answer the Queen, _elleth!_ » A warrior narrowed a sharp and pointed arrow towards the woman. She was used to that. In other times, in another era, she had been a queen as well. Keeping the small and dark amulet shaped like a tree near the long and black tunic, she searched for a glance of compassion from the golden haired _elleth._

 _« We have a protector._ He is young, but he may be the most powerful dragon of this Age. » Brassenyl smirked, the smile distorting the beautiful cheeks.

A thick, glacial silence followed. The wood elves stared in astonishment. They knew one dragon powerful enough, although Brassenyl's recent master was not that one dragon: he called himself Ankranchach. Ankranchach was not as old as Smaug, but he was strong to tear down trees and the flames that licked the dark dragon were capable of melting elvish blades as easily as Smaug had invaded the Lonely Mountain.

« What do you know of Smaug? »

« He is interested in a young dragoness' eggs from the West. What was her name? Oh yes, Dornvaien. He says Ankranchach should have given him the eggs. The dragoness's eggs were Ankranchach's prole. He did not want to hand them to the Creator of the Rings. Said they were too young. I have to admit, Sauron, the Generous Provider of Gifts would have offered a reward worthy of both Ankranchach and Smaug's majesty. But my Master never liked to be a puppet of the Dark Lord. The Dragoness did not want that either. So you see, the eggs have fallen into Mortal Men's hands, and I was in charge by my Master, alongside Orargrandh to keep a watch over them. »

A chill crept into the court of noble elves' as the name of the evil Maia was spoken. They were very much aware the dangers of three fire-drakes joining the Dark Lord's army.

« So... you have disguised yourself as a mockingbird? » One of the female warriors asked.

« That is my form in the West. A male mockingbird. We both know how Sauron wishes to expand his "lordship" into the north of the Middle-Earth. I am keeping watch of Smaug as I keep a watch on the woman who has the eggs. » She replied courteous and in a cold tone.

« So...You were captured by the rangers near the Lonely Mountain...why did you allow yourself to be captured? »

« The dragon Smaug, he seems to be more interested in the lady owning the dragon eggs than the eggs themselves. I have no idea why, o Lady of the Light. » She procured a long bow, leaning the shackled body against the wood. « There is no telling what sort of mission he may want, but I am not in the mood to be his spy for a few more weeks. »

« What about the man you often sing about? Many Mortal men told the Mirkwood elves how you sing the tragic fate of a wandering sorcerer. »

« He? He's a demon, an Easterling accursed: the instrument he carries is too ancient, but yes, it is an Easterling instrument. Most of the men of his poor nation were slaughtered during the War of the Last Alliance. This nation was one of the most powerful of the Easterlings, but their king, Yamm, never received a ring during the Alkalabêth. Angered, the King of this nation asked Sauron for a great power. And so he conceded it. The Unswerving Shades, as they began to be called afterwards by my people, are now demons with powerful voices. They eat the flesh of Men, but they never look corrupted unless when they are angered. Their faces are more Orc-like then, the horns and tails in their backs revealing what and whom they were corrupted. He is a descendant of those who rebelled against the Rulers of Númenor and worshipped Morgoth. I think... Maybe Ki-Yong has forgotten this grudge due to the harsh sailing he had to endure. His loyalty with the Dark Lord was severed the moment Ulmo swallowed with His Seas. »

« An Easterling and a descendant of Númenóreans...No wonder in my mirror he was that tall. »


	3. No turning back

**Hello, guys! There was a large overlap in my post. Hope you like this one. References and meaning of Sindarin names in the end. Please tell me if there is a mistake in the grammar.**

Many were the young Elves that were silent. A great silence hovered in the House of Galadriel. Never before had they witnessed a creature, a _**Moriquendi** _utter the name of Gorthaur without a trace of fear. Here there was a Years of the Trees' elf that had seen Sauron Gorthaur and Morgoth…Yet she had no fear in pronouncing and mentioning names and epochs that were painful for the Free People.

« What will you do now, O last of the _flâd-ahuin_? » Celeborn asked in a grave, enigmatic tone.

« Nothing binds me to these woods…I will say this: Ankranrach has been searching for allies. We will not permit any of those eggs to reach the Dark Lord's hands! And Ki-Yong is as unpredictable as Smaug! A demon he may be, but he is ancient for a Man. I will depart to the dark West. »

« Brassenyl, what kind of allies does the Golden Arrow have in mind? »

« He has some in mind. In Eriador, he seeks a Bard and a healer. How was the name of those two? Hithuên and Morhuiel. »

« Fog-Child and Dark Jewel? Those names are quite recent indeed. I do hope Ankranrach does not mean to bring inexperienced travellers. This is the fate of Middle-Earth – possibly, of this very world – we are speaking. »

« Morhuiel is a black-sheep among the herd of white, but he is a kind soul. Half-Elf from a Ùmaen father and human in his mother's side, Morhuiel has an unique but rather unfortunate manner which he sees any female creature. There has been a time when I have scolded him for not behaving properly. Aulë has blessed him with the cunning of smith arts, but he is far too loud for an elf. He has travelled for the good seventy years of his life, but nowadays, I have heard he has established within Eriador, not daring to cross the woods to Rivendell Houses. Hithuên, or Hîthuihên, as I enjoy calling her by the more formal name, has a deep love for all things Yavanna has created. She has healed many men since she the moment of her one hundredth birthday, but she is…How is it they say? Oh, yes, wet on the ears. She is quite spritely, the favourite pastime is drawing and sketching the many creatures the Valar have sung into existing. Ankranrach is…well, despite these two' brashness and childlike manners, he sees in them the material to battle the many creatures and henchmen Sauron would throw at them. Lady Galadriel, for all my millennia, I cannot reason with the old dragon and persuade him otherwise. They are naïve, and for all their efforts, every now and then they are much as children to me as if they were yet to reach their first twenty and fifth anniversary. »

« Brassenyl…How old was Lúthien when she battled against the forces of darkness to retrieve her love from Angband's dungeons?»

« I-»

« Four, five hundred years… There is enough time for them to understand the world. »

« I hardly doubt it. » Brassenyl raised her eyebrows sceptically.

* * *

In Eriador, a few miles to the Northeast borders, a six feet and two inches tall woman rose, the short-bow tightly held by the hands. A cascade of dark hair fell neatly on the back, hold by an intricate butterfly shaped hairpiece.

She had been ambushed by a group of twelve Men, each tanned or of a dark colour of skin. Four of them had their raven hair was tied into messy topknots. The others had shaven to a point a small locks rested to ear length. She could see the mark of the Evil Eye near their ears, despite the hoods. Although they were not as tall as her, each held a blackened scimitar, a crossbow tied in each of their backs and four short daggers hidden by the velvet and dark cloaks. Easterling brigands, and by their weapons, they were hired by a darker, and wealthier entity. One of them was wearing a set of plate armour. He swung a sickle tied into a thirteen feet long whip-like weapon made of chains. One single black and piercing eye gazed at her, since the other was a copper-like aberration. How come were they so far from their homeland?

« Hand over that letter, Elf-girl! » The leader snarled in heavy-accented Westron. The threat was hanging silently in the air. The half Noldor elleth glanced at the men. These were not brutish, idiotic Orcs. The Necromancer had sent Humans from the East to catch her? He certainly was fearful of "Golden Arrow", if he was careful enough to send Men, with their lust for Power and temperamental hearts.

« Oh…Has your Master tired of seeing incompetent Orcs doing the job greedy Men could accomplish? » Hîthuen hissed, one arrow carefully pulled into the bow. « Leave these woods alone, foul creatures. As long as I am here, no one of you shall pass towards Eriador! »

An arrow loosened from one of the men's oak-like and iron-reinforced crossbows. Hîthuen saw the arrow before it was shot towards her leg. One small gesture like jumping and deflecting the arrow with one of her own was hard. The Easterling Men were faster than the common and dim-witted Orcs.

« All right, you're fast. »

She was a healer. The dagger and arrow were not as fast as the However, if the men found her an easy prey, they were mistaken. Focusing only a small minute in the nature around herself was not as difficult as holding weapons. A small colourful pile of mass appeared tucked into the pocket. It was nothing, a mere mixture her "sworn" brother had made while wandering the northwestern lands. A rain of arrows began to shower upon the unprepared men. However, most of the arrows' tips were blunt: a mere distraction. Avoiding scimitar's blades and arrow's poisoned tips, the elleth focused into the small mix, placing a tip of volcanic element from the North-east into the colourful and explosive mix. Fixing the mix of colourful pigments into a wooden, hollow container, she muttered a weak Song of fire. The fire lit a fuse.

« Beautiful blades …allow me to see them shimmer! »

Throwing the exploding ball of colour into the Easterlings, she hoped this would buy enough time. A flower-shaped explosion echoed, making the woods lit with many colours. Hîthuen would laugh if the black mercenaries were painted in many colours, as her brother have warned her. One of tip of a throwing dagger stroke the tip of a branch, slicing it in half, making it drip in a black and burning liquid, the splinter making a shrill-like noise echo from the tree… What sort of sorcery was that? Those swords moved faster than she expected.

« _Men that move like wraiths but are not. As if the North-east was lacking in disgusting creatures._ »

The leader's sickle unchained and bolted towards her, the movement similar to that of an attacking snake. It hissed in a metallic and rattling sound – unknown and eerie to the elleth's ears.

« You are truly persistent! »

She truly hoped she did not need to beg to Yavanna to release the Vala wrath upon those Men.

One of the men released one choking and leathered noose, aiming to Hîthuen. Orcs only used nets, spears and poisoned blades, but these Easterlings used other tactics. Her dagger made contact with one of the men's dagger, as a metallic clink pierced her hearing. She drew a small piece of blood from the Easterling's face.

Swiftly passing to a counter-attack, she called upon Yavanna Herself, summoning a subtle, graceful Song. A few branches of trees began to uplift and shot towards the men. As the choking noose lessened its pressure on a tree's branch and a gasp of a man's feeling his neck being torn from the ground made the elleth flinch. The tree's branch tightened around the man's neck so much a few drops of blood streamed and fell on the ground.

Hîthuen felt a few pearls of sweat dropping from her chin. They were gaining on the elleth's steps, even if she sprang from one tree to another. Yavanna's raw power could not always protect her. The branches swayed and groped the men, but they were faster and ripped them into pieces.

Pinpointing the direction where the sickle and the chain came became a lethal task for Hîthuen, when she was concentrated in narrowing spells and fighting with her arrows the other Easterlings.

She slung off another arrow towards one of the Men's necks. A small splutter, a gagging noise and the crash of a body hitting the floor, bones cracking filtered in the elleth's ears. The rattling and hissing of the sickle alongside two crossbow bolts alerted her. The sickle was coming from a blind point, whereas the bolts were coming from her left and right.

Deflecting the bolts with a century-old tree's acidic leaves, she focused on the jumping, hooded Easterling.

A thirteenth, curved blade appeared, blocking effectively the sickle and the heavy iron ball.

Morhuiel appeared, a song echoing from the lips. The quality of the song filtered vibrantly throughout the woods. A single arrow attempted to silence him. However, the elf's legs carried him as Hîthuen made a protecting spell around the sworn "brother".

However, in a split of second, there was an odd and wicked glint in the leader's copper and glass eye. He was smiling.

« What's the matter, old narrow eye-sore?! » Morhuiel snapped while defending one swinging from the metallic and rattling chain. « Thou were born with a grinning Orc's face? »

A small and painful hiss came from the hooded man. But he kept smiling nonetheless.

An arrow whistled. Hîthuen defended her brother with one pommel of the sword, knocking the archer unconscious.

One moment without looking and she noticed the garrotte-shaped, coiling iron chain, reading to attack her neck. A few words in shimmering Tengwar script were written in the chains. Even with the speed of her people, it had been too fast.

She gagged, the neck suddenly locked by the infernal, bewitched weapon.

« Morgoth take ye-»

« You know nothing of darkness, little elleth! » The leader chuckled in a chilling tone. The black and leathered hands placed one firm hold in the chain while the sickle was narrowed towards the young elf. « Now that I have your attention, elfling, I suggest you lay down whatever instrument you carry and that sword. I would hate to bring your little sister's corpse to my Master's fortress. He wants you both alive. »

Hîthuen hissed something at the man, but she could not say anything less. Despite the seemingly safe distance, he could choke her to death.

Morhuiel's fear was overcome with hatred as he spat at the man, the rapier still held firmly between both hands.

« A'thêlnín-Release her, thou jail-crow of Mandos! »

The copper eye flashed a sudden flame-like light, and the man's voice echoed as though it was not his own.

« Your ancient lore of the Middle-Earth will serve no one here, elf-boy! Put that weapon and the instrument down. I promise you will be received well in my Master's temporary abode. »

Something occurred to the ellon's mind. Although his fëa was filled with an immense fear, hatred threatening to overcloud the judgement, he managed to share the thoughts with his _thêl_. The eyes snapped to the copper eye and then to the chain.

« _If I can manage to break that chain-_ »

« _You cannot, Morhuiel! He'll kill me!_ »

« _No, A'thêlnín! I'll find a manner to set you free!_ »

Hîthuen's memory traced back to a time when she had lost her family. She belonged to the sole elf clan who had decided to stay in the South. Her father, the proud southern light Elf-King, had been murdered by a wraith-like being, who was yet a man. It was not one of the Ring-Wraiths. She was only twenty years old. No one knew back then. It was a mystery – where the Ring-Wraiths had fled. Unfortunately, that thing murdered both her father and family within the clan's stronghold. It burned every living elf to the ground…Except for Morhuiel and her. The blood streaming from her Ada's face, a scream of a woman penetrating in the palace grounds, a demonic, hissing cackle echoing in the polluted and stifling air...The awful and horrifying scream of grief when her aunt took both Morhuiel and her to a safe tunnel - She remembered it all. The crackling of fire seemed to threaten her currently. She felt dizzy from wandering through these thoughts. Yet there was no fire among them, only a horrifying and ravenous presence, suffocating her in its darkness. As a small bubble of blood began to form in her tongue, gloom fell on those bright, brown eyes. The shackles were oppressing. If that Man told her they had been forged by Sauron himself, she would have believed it.

« _Something…something in that man's living eye…Morhuiel, I think I can defeat him_. »

All those memories from struggling against a man returned to her. She would never surrender to one of those Easterlings, even if she had to give her life!

The elleth's eyes were filled with rage as that common will to survive, the very same relentless will to live that characterised Maedhros and Fëanor thousands of years ago resurfaced. With the rest of Songs she possessed, a small dagger floated from the elvish belt and threw itself to the man's copper eye. It was a hopeful chance. She would either miss that eye and die or – Valar help her – she would free herself. With her teeth clenched and the sight blurred with the darkened mist that hovered around her, she struggled against those chains.

Suddenly a wave of bright, blinding flames shot from the sky, making the Easterlings scream in pain. Miraculously enough, it did not hinder Morhuiel nor Hîthuen. The flames had only swallowed the sickle captain's Men.

Hîthuen's mind focused solely on the man's eye. The blade, scorched and heated by the powerful dragon-fire flew directly to the man's copper eye, breaking it. A hiss of some kind of material whistled. A foul and reeking wind blew from the man's ears and mouth as he fell, leaving no eye and no corpse to rot: only a pile of dust. Morhuiel and Hîthuen gasped, coughing from both the dark smoke the dragon had unleashed and from the foul and blueish wisps coming from the corpse. A couple of screaming and hissing echoed, but the dragon muffled it with roars. Shrilling and whistling-like sounds filled the dark wood. It was unbearable. The air was thick with a strange aura.

Her eyes were exhausted. She sought Morhuiel in vain, the eyelids feeling too heavy to open. How she hated it! When Hîthuen and her "blood brother" fell down from what seemed to be a thirty feet tall tree, the last thing they felt was a leather-texture supporting them.

* * *

 _A'thêlnín_ \- my sister. Although they are not direct relatives, Hîthuen and Morhuiel consider each other brother and sister.

 _Fëa -_ soul, spirit

Fëanor - High-King of the Noldor in the Years of the Trees (read Silmarillion), the one who sworn animosity against anyone who dared conquer the Silmarils from Mórgoth and not retrieve them to the Fëanor's children.

Maedhros - One of the Princes of the Noldor and the eldest of Fëanor's seven sons.

Moriquendi - Quenya word for the "Dark Elves". The only example in canon we have is Eöl.


	4. A kohl-eyed maiden

**_EDIT:_** _Thank you DONOVAN94 For the inspiration. I know Smaug is taking his own sweet time in appearing here, but I tried to remain faithful to the books of Professor Tolkien. There is a whole freakin' chronology. To be honest, Ki-Yong could have crossed paths with the Golden Dragon as he could with Ankrankrach and Tolkien's Scatha. Like he says in the first chapter, his half-brother was a dragon. I do not want to reveal much about that. Friendly reminder to all those who are asking where in the world Smaug is - a dragon takes his own time. But hey, one thing I can promise: there is a Dragoness here! See if you can spot her in this chapter._

 ** _Hello, guys! On to Dovaïna's POV! Have I mentioned how I hate writing in the limited third person narrative?_**

 ** _I noticed that other on their armour and war clothes, Easterlings are not given a specific description (very much like the Dothraki), so if you are wondering how Dovaïna inherits her big eyes, she actually is half Easterling on her mother's side._**

Fire swayed and kindled the spirits of the Dothraki. Orikenash, one of the eldest female warriors Dovaïna knew in the Khalaasar glanced at the man playing Murin Khuur all alone.

A piercing and yet melodious cry wallowed in the Khalaasar as the bard allowed to song take form. Dovaïna was gasping, the small glow in Ki-Yong's eyes as he played the _Murin Khuur_ made the young woman inspired. His _Murin Khuur_ brought forth the blood of her ancestors... A traditional storm-like song took the audience by assault, an intense melody that spoke of fire, waves swallowing many prosperous families. Dovaïna could see the burning of houses and the crumbling of a mighty civilisation with the rolling of thunderous drums. She wanted to sing to those romantic notes. Her heart began to rush as she glanced at the man.

Ki-Yong began to sing. Blown away by the utter beauty of the voice, Dovaïna huddled close to the fire, one dark mantle around her. Fixing the eyes on the fire, a blush creeping to her dark and bronze-coloured cheeks, she brought the hand against the chest. The heart's speed was surprising. The song seemed sad and melancholic.

 _Born into a world of hatred,_

 _Nothing to live for,_

 _I was the Ninth Son of a Tribesman,_

 _Hwang-Nìn was the Southern Falcon King_

 _Zhèng-Ul' dreaded amethyst-eyed rival_

 _Long have I awaited_

 _For Númenor's fall!_

 _The pain I felt,_

 _Since my birth,_

 _The Elves had said with their wise eyes_

« Erù Iluvatar and Irmo have professed:

" _ **Mòr-Tharillyeel"!** » _

_When the Lord of Gifts appeared in this island,_

 _Hardly a man could have predicted,_

 _The catastrophe, the Valar have_

 _For us, a desolation in rolling ocean,_

 _Devouring every mortal down to Ulmo indigo blue!_

 _And all the Kingsguards, and all the Kings' guards_

 _Could never sail to that land of honey and milk_

 _Ever again._

 _Mass cremation,_

 _Mass funereal celebration,_

 _My brothers, my sisters,_

 _All of those heathens,_

 _They were devoured down to Ulmo indigo blue!_

 _Oh what a fleeting world,_

 _Uncurled,_

 _Unfolded,_

 _Unbending,_

 _I have seen Thy shimmering grace!_

 _ **Gothûrz ahk naran** , _

_I am prepared, my Lord!_

 _As I_ _witnessed the fall of Númenor,_

 _There was a deep fear within me,_

 _But! How can you know,_

 _What I have been through?_

 _The tears were drowned by the salty_

 _Sea, blood washed by the many_

 _Who had_ _survived this calamity!_

 _A man like that could never exist…_

 _Between ashes there is a dark mist,_

 _But if I keep my emotions at bay_

 _I feel as though I would explode,_

 _In one thousand and one hundred flames!_

 _For the first time, I felt Thy heat._

 _I want to be stronger than any living man!_

 _With warm rhythm,_

 _Two hearts beating as one!_

 _Sycophant,_

 _Sibilant,_

 _Delectable!_

 _Darkness surrounding thy sacred, crimson frame..._

 ** _Gothûrz ahk yur naran,_**

 _I am prepared_ , my Lord.

An haunted and panicked howl filtered from the instrument as he signalled the other _Murin Khuur_ to accompany. Regret underlined the words, but also some form of dark desire came with them. A spiritual hum came from the singing: lust, cruelty, hatred, regret, grief. The voice carried in a shadowy-like echo, a hissing, guttural tone. Dovaïna gasped, surprised that such a powerful voice could come from the gaunt man. A larger part of the bards she had met never had a emaciated figure. The low, velvet and blackened voice surrounded the _Dothraki_ in a story.

A few men glanced at the man, puzzled as to what the lordly figure in the song could mean. Clearly the bard was inspired in a few songs from the Seven Kingdoms, the ones where a bard sung a forbidden love for the Lady of the House. Some of the words were unknown to them. Ki-Yong had three dialects in the song, and sometimes he mixed them. Dovaïna could understand the first. The other two...They were as contrasting as night and day. A heavenly, hallowed tone soared whenever he sung in the melodic language, whilst in the third language, the voice became menacing, even rough.

The movement of the bard's supple, long hands made the women who sat near the hearth to sigh. Hands with which he offered music and stories.

As the final notes died down, all the women and all the men clapped. Tears ran down from Orikenash and the other female warriors.

Daenerys Targaryen approached the small group of people that had formed around the bard. At this, the man's light brown eyes snapped, a cold expression entering his face.

« What an astounding song. » The "Stormborn" drew a short intake of breath, one hand around the velvet and fur coat. « Doreah, can you ask that man wherever he heard such words? »

« You may ask that yourself, my Khaleesi. I merely drew inspiration from my father's own words. He told me stories about the Isle of Númenor. My mother-forgive me, but thou barest a godly resemblance to her. Tall and proud, like an Elleth Lady. »

Daenerys Targaryen laughed.

« You would not be a bard if you weren't a spellbinding craftsman of words! I truly have never found a man who could create a world through music. »

Ki-Yong made a long and graceful bow. What had been a few minutes a commanding, guttural voice was now a gentle murmur:

« Thou flatter me, my Khaleesi. This piece was written centuries ago...I could never had been the author behind it.»

« Oh. Nevertheless it is a different music. The one I had heard in the Free Cities-well, it is sad but it was never this pungent. And you-When you sing it, it is almost as if you were telling the story from a perspective of one who has lived it. But that would be too much fantastical, would it not? »

A crooked and cunning smile passed through the foreign man's lips. It seemed the mere act of pleasantness was an odd concept to him.

« Indeed, it would. »

« Master Ki-Yong... Shouldn't we come to the tent? You must be tired.»

One of the eyebrows was pulled upwards, an amused smile curling the face that was normally severe and neutral:

« Yes...I may be old, but I am not that old! »

A few people let out a chorus of boisterous laughter, giggles and embarrassed chuckles.

« One day, you must come and perform before my Sun and Stars, Master Bard: your voice carries so well into this wind. »

« I would not dream of it, Khaleesi. Only warriors are honourable enough to come near the Khal. I-I-I am no warrior! You stand before the worst wretch that has ever walked this Earth. »

With that humble reply, the bard retired to the tent, the _Murin Khuur_ wrapped tightly in the slender and ruddy hands. A small ink-pot was kicked while he trudged on the carpeted ground. A crash echoed. A large spot of ink streamed on the ground. _Kôhl_ , the young servant had explained to him, but Ki-Yong seemed far too drained, a puzzled and astonished look in his face as he glanced at the mirror-like reflection of an obsidian mirror. His handsome features had faded, to give a few strands of white hair and the face was more haggard.

Desperately, Dovaïna attempted to place the _Kôhl_ pot and salvage a few drops, but the aromatic, soot-made and soft ink was all absorbed by the red carpet bearing a red, lidless eye. Never once the young Dothraki liked the small symbol underneath her feet. It represented Lord Scatha's family crest (or so he had told her). It was strangely foreboding and eerie. She had never managed to sleep with all the black furniture surrounding the "Master's chambers".

This was Scatha's favourite Kôhl, with the dragon silvery statuette coiled around and three jewels carefully drawn on the crystalline glass. In the beginning of her servitude to him, Dovaïna was uterly fascinated with the crystal pot. She had used to spend hours asking who had made this beautiful and tiny piece. He never answered her. He used to sink the thin horse-hair brush into it and underline the crease and the corner between the eyelid and the lashes. When she was in her tenth and fourth name-day, Scatha offered her a small ink pot. Even now, she loved the ceremony of dipping the brush and paint her eyes-lids.

« My flower is more precious today. » He would say. Dovaïna would laugh innocently and blush in an awkward manner. That had have been seven years ago.

Now, it only served as a reminder how she had seen an empty crystal pot near her father's corpse.

Recalling the dazed, terrified and deathly pale face she had last seen her father, Dovaïna gasped.

« Master-! Master Ki-Yong! What-! Master, you must bid the Khaleesi a good evening! »

« She is no Queen of mine. The Lord and King I loved was-well, you better not hear this story. »

« Wait! You remember a part of your life? »

« That is what is most frightening about this-Dovaïna, little Dovaïna! It has been-we have been travelling for weeks, since the Khaleesi was known to bear a child. And-each time I step to glance at the reflection in this mirror-! What a ghastly apparition! It is as though some corpse is staring right at me! There have been times when I am retired in the small guest chamber within this _yurt-_ And I hear voices! This is propelling me to a state of insanity, little Dovaïna! Feast your eyes upon this! Does this appear like the hair of a youthful Shun man?! » He seemed to rip the very white hair he had grown. A sudden strike of anger flashed in those red eyes. He growled in frustration. A great wrath had distorted the old Human's face. What in the world had happened to that man? She gasped once again, not of disgust, but for fear the man's golden heart had tarnished. « Only when I sing, when I hum to myself for the sake of peace of mind-! Only then does this happen! Or when I play that _Murin Khuur!_ It was-I remember singing was the sole comfort I had in this world-! As a boy-As a boy I would play the _Murin Khuur_ for hours and nothing seemed to matter. Not the visions, nor the nightmares that were offered by the Valar! » He snarled the last phrase. And then he began to mutter a few curses, each worse than the other in the ancient and rough language.

Sinking to the knees, the ink blot surrounding him, Ki-Yong began to sob. Dovaïna began to understand singing was the one thing this man had inherited from that family that he did not shun or resented. That brilliant and talented man was crying from regret. Covering the face with both hands, moaning and uttering wrenching sobs. he wept long and endlessly.

Between the crying and the growling, Ki-Yong chuckled bitterly.

« The little and kind Khaleesi wanted me to spend the night at her yurt! Imagine a maddened fool as the likes of me desecrating her tent! »

A scheming determination overcame the girl. Surely the old family she belonged to would be rivals with this man-Perhaps she could use him as a stepping-stone for her escape. But then again, he spoke often of ancient times. Dovaïna's rational thoughts made her flinch at the compassion this man have been instilling since he came, enshrouded in a mantle and carried as a potato bag by Lord Scatha. He was a pitiful old man, barely eating and forgetting of simple hygiene habits. Of course, the Dothraki men barely washed their hair, but for her beautiful mother's memory, Dovaïna washed her hair in any lake or heated a river's water in a basin near a hearth's flames.

She offered her hands, a gesture signalling for Ki-Yong to lean on the cushions.

He acquiesced, the fury and bitter hatred for those Gods he called "the Valar" clearly lingering in those terrible eyes. He had been cursing them in that black language she had heard in the song. After rinsing the remains of the hair soap from Ki-Yong's white strands of hair, she sighed:

« You-You do not even remember your real name, Master Ki-Yong? »

« No... » He muttered in a slow and cold tone.

« What kind of curse was inflicted upon you...And why did those Gods have chosen you as their Messenger? »

« Those, are two questions I have never been able to answer on my own.

« Are you a prisoner of Lord Scatha-»

« Why! What has made you think that, little Dovaïna? » He chuckled, a venomous and chilling sound coming from the dry mouth. « I am quite capable of slicing any lord's throat! »

Dovaïna unconsciously rubbed her shoulders, making sure the foam from the herbal soap was lathered. She was never afraid to show her body bare and curvy. If anything, since the arrival of the strange and old bard, Scatha have been feeding her well. She took her clothes and took the elegant golden basin from the fire.

He averted quickly his eyes, an expression of astonishment distorting the sunken cheeks.

« Dovaïna-What the-! Are you-? Are you washing yourself?!»

« What do you think it is, old foolish man? » Dovaïna sighed. « I had lost my fear of men ravishing me a long time ago. »

« Hmm...It just seems odd. I thought the old dragon-faced master of yours would've shown that ugly mug by now. »

« It has been a few hours since he departed. He said he would fetch the water from a local underground spring. We have enough fresh water here in the tent. He has left you and me alone, while he goes out to God knows where-He has never trusted me, you know? » Dovaïna commented, soaping herself with the herbal-smelling liquid.

« Will you-Will you tell me why did he want you? I am sure Scatha could have find himself another woman. Of all the women in this world! You seem too young-»

The young woman shrugged, the black eyes as cold as the "Endless Winter" she had had heard long ago.

« There is no reason to that. He simply said "leverage"-It is the same reason he has not killed you. » Dovaïna scrubbed hard the left side of her leg, feeling self-conscious of the black, seven inches long scar near the right thigh.

« I have been used as a leverage far too many times. » The old bard said.

How she wished that subject could be forgotten...Recalling the night Scatha had taken her virginity still brought shivers and nightmares. She hummed a song, something she had learned from a travelling merchant who claimed he'd dealings with the Lannister House, one of the Khaleesi' many enemies. Dovaïna allowed the song to flow deeply within her, the notes sliding long her throat. Soon the voice became softer, lighter, and clearer. Although the song was of a dark context, she liked it, for the Common Tongue was one of her favourite languages.

 _And who are you, the proud lord said,_

 _that I must bow so low?_

 _Only a cat of a different coat,_

 _that's all the truth I know._

 _In a coat of gold or a coat of red,_

 _a lion still has claws,_

 _And mine are long and sharp, my lord,_

 _as long and sharp as yours._

Ki-Yong turned at her in amazement. He was looking at her, not like a man stared at a naked woman, but as a musician who'd discovered a precious instrument.

« Keep singing... What was that? » He muttered, the light brown eyes widened.

« The Rains of Castamere. At least, I think that's how it is called. » Dovaïna said with mild embarrassment. « I only know these verses. The rest, I am afraid, is blurry. I only heard this when I was a little Dothraki flower. »

« Interesting. I see the makings of a stunning bard in you, Dovaïna! »

This time, Dovaïna really did laugh. Showing the back with the family totem, a three feet long black snake, the young woman smiled cynically, and the beautiful, tanned features became dark. Long and raven strands of hair framed the five feet and two inches tall reflection.

« A bard with a desert cobra in her back-No wonder Master Scatha chose "Dragon Breath" for my slave name! My old clan phrase was a little similar to the Targaryen. No one, not even the Dragon, can make me forget my blood. »

« Eru all-mighty, the Vala of Fortune has been generous to you, Dovaïna dear! What an interesting body painting... »

Suddenly, the man screamed, falling back to from the cushions, hands clutching the head, pulling a few strands of white and soft hair. He panted, streams of sweat descending and soaking the tunic.

Hushing towards a wooden and light wooden box, she began to open the small drawers, fiddling with many flasks.

« Master Ki-Yong! Do not worry, if you were poisoned, I might have the remedy for that! »

« No-! No-! Go away! » He tried to scream in a rasped voice.

« Master Ki-Yong, it is my head that will roll if you die! »

Contorting and twitching with continuous spasms, Ki-Yong roared a command in a hiss-like tongue, the syllables so dark and menacing Dovaïna withdrew. The voice did not sound alike the posed and calm Ki-Yong. Then, he no longer screamed. He froze, and those light brown eyes now shimmered in a glowing red. They were like dead and polished spheres, glowing in the dimness. Dovaïna saw how the bard's muscles were trembling, aching as they kept him standing. But, when she saw his face...The ears had become sharp and pointed, the skin a dull and dark grey, his head kept moving from one side to another, the predatory teeth grinning. The tongue he began to speak was nothing like Dovaïna had heard. A velvet, low and neutral voice spoke, almost too fast for her to even make any sense of the strings of words. It was different from the hiss-like tongue and from the melodious tongue she had heard. Mesmerised by the voice, she was paralysed. Not from fear, but in awe. It was different from any language she had had heard from any human!

A chill crept up her back. Somehow she had seen a man with paintings in this kind of situation. Indeed, she recalled a time when this man said how she would "help the Stormborn". His eyes had turned a pair of dark emeralds once he began to say to the old widows of her clan how a "dragon would capture her".

« _My Lady... there is one dragon pursuing you!_ » A low voice said.

Dovaïna turned to the female and elderly voice. Orikenash was standing in the middle of the tent, a serious and stern expression furrowing her eyes.


	5. Part of One's Soul, part of One's blood

**_Hello guys. Long time , I know. But here's a long chapter for you! Dark chapter is a long one! I did not want to end this chapter in a weird moment._**

Ki-Yong was sailing through the many mists of time and space. He knew no common mortal sorcerer could have been capable of that, no spirit was powerful enough to summon a mortal out of its' Hröa.

« Show me-» A dark and stony voice hissed.

Part of his Fëa travelled to the immortal planes, and that was what his body was convulsing. In past visions, Ki-Yong's Fëa managed to disentangle itself from the demonic curse that felled him. This time, it was different. Someone did not want him to come with the Vala. It had refused the second part of his Seer-like soul to carry itself to the realm of dreams. He could feel a dark, chilling presence rooting him to the mortal ground.

To the old, immortal-like man, Lòrien – or Irmo in the Quenya, ancient elven tongue - seemed a seven feet tall elf-like being, clad in flowing, amethyst robes. His face seemed veiled, safe for two turquoise eyes. He was a blinding light when compared to the dark aura emanating from the black tendrils. An aureole of pure and blinding light shone from the amethyst crown. His hair, which hung about the shoulders, was white as if with age; and yet the blue eyes beneath the veil were solemn and filled with an unnatural strength and youth. Around his waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of it as silver as the long sword the Vala carried. Gloved hands were long, as if his hold were as muscular as the Corrupted Maia standing in a shade-like figure.

A surge of warmth and mother-like presence resonated in the dream-like realm. Ki-Yong's spectre felt compelled to sink to his unseen knees. Another Vala attempted to help the poor Fëa. A few crystalline tears fell on the demon. They shimmered like diamonds. No sooner the tears touched the black tendrils of Dark Magic, a shrill hiss of pain echoed. And the darkness faded, leaving only a few relieved voices, happily laughing how they were freed, many Fëar laughing and praising a Valië he feared. For the first time in many centuries, Kato Ki-Yong's Fëa shrunk. His ancestors were drawn to this figure.

« Eaa, Arda, Ainulindalë…» The most beautiful of female voices, purer than any elf and bell like, soared in the darkness. Silver strands of hair rustled against the mortal transparent, dark-like and skeletal figure. « Kela thaurer! »

He heard something like a roaring scream "get out, get out" in the black speech, as something was torn from his mind. Was it him who had screamed? Or was the Maia who had screamed? The feeling could be akin to ripping off the dead skin of a wound, leaving him fresh.

« Come, Ki-Yong. » The faceless Vala seemed to smile through his youthful voice. « Mairon will not be able to reach us here. »

« What about the young Valië-»

« She has more power within than any Maia that is under my bidding. Mairon is no match against her light. »

« You may return to the light where you came. I will not follow you! » Ki-Yong replied.

He recognised the Vala, for the presence had attempted to prod at the inner corners of the Human, but he never had have listened to the warm voice, whispering to him. There were so many voices tormenting him. Kato Ki-Yong used these shades, these wraiths to protect himself from the Valar. That dissonant buzz and snarling of darkened, corrupted fëa often confused them. Any Elf who had attempted to reach the demon's mind was quickly banished. Until that very day, only one entity had had managed such a feat, but Kato dared not speak his name, even within his mind.

The spirit-like darkness let out an animalistic, screech-like roar, in a language Ki-Yong could not understand and displeasing to the ear.

However, the Vala of Dreams would not submit himself to the dark tendrils. It was as if the Vala had opened one door in the blink of a second and locked it in the very same second.

Lòrien wanted him to witness something. He had opened the doors to the chambers of the Valië of Time, and Ki-Yong would have the power to see how Zhèn-Ul withered. He saw a King in the South-west, in a deserted and desolate place where it used to be South Gondor.

He watched a cheerful elleth coming out of a silver and obsidian black palace. She seemed smaller than the Noldor elves he had seen coming from the North. She admired the stars and played with a little wooden doll shaped like a horse. Of course, this was an elfling. Her small turquoise pendant swayed to and through as she skipped in the balcony. A wave of black hair fell on the little girl's dark blue tunic.

Daunted at the enormous realisation he was seeing his true past, Ki-Yong's Fëa fell, but the Hröa pain he was expecting did not come. He merely floated about, a transparent Fëa, as many of his visions came.

« Oh Eru! » Ki-Yong whispered, « Zhèng-Ul was my kin. Hwang-Nìn was my father, and yet, I see neither them, nor my platinum-haired mother. Why have you brought me here? »

« This was the closest you have had as a home. »

Suddenly, a six feet and four inches tall man clad in shining silver armour surprised the little girl in the white marble balcony. In the back of the armour, two long elvish blades were sheathed. A dark hue of olive skin adorned the man's noble and chiselled brow. Waves of black hair fell upon the armoured shoulder.

The Elf King scooped the little elleth in his arms, making the two feet child laugh and giggle in a bell-like sound.

« Ada! »

« Yes, Ada is back! Ooh, Hîthuên…I missed you so! » He nuzzled the button-like and olive, beige nose.

Another Elf appeared behind the silk curtains of the door. A noble sword rested on the lord's dark copper-coloured shield. Ki-Yong knew these armours were far stronger than they seemed. No matter how refined and elegant the carvings on the plate, these were fine armour plates forged by the High-Elves and they could resist scorching, fiery temperatures. Both hands were partially scarred and black from volcanic soot and blistering fumes. He was far wearier than he would appear before the south High-Elves and the mortal Men. The Northern Elf King seemed fairer, but the mortal blood was evident in both the conviction in his eyes and the dark brownish hair. A tired pair of greyish blue eyes glanced wearily at the skipping elleth. He ruffled the long strands of her hair, as a loving father would.

« Hîthuen…It has been too long since I saw you. »

« Suila'dya, Uncle! » She piped affectionately.

« _Ada_! I have kept the Black Númenórian company. He-He always looks so sad-»

« Are you sure it is safe for Hîthuen to play with him? » Elrond asked.

« The Valar know how the boy was mistreated by that man he calls a Father. I could never treat him as a bargaining chip, even if the Black Númenorians and that old Easterling clan call it. He is nine springs younger than Hîthuen, but-they somehow tend to get along. »

« The Obsidian Lord-he was never a jailer to me. »

"This is the Obsidian Elvish palace in the south-western cliffs". Ki-Yong mused to himself, the transparent and greyish Fëa floating in the towers. "I remember this. I used to visit it alongside my father in diplomatic embassies. But then, a few months after the Elvish and Man Alliance reached the Gates of Mordor, I was imprisoned there. The Obsidian Palace Lord thought he could persuade my father to treat with him. My Father never answered it. "

Irmo gazed upon him mildly. His gentle touch, tough it had been light and instantaneous, was still present to the old man's sense of feeling. He was conscious of a thousand odours hovering in the citadel, so many things he had forgotten – fresh vegetables grown near the graceful, elvish and small citadel, a rich incense of lavender hung in the air. Many elegant and incredibly detailed flower-shaped lanterns lit this imposing and noble town. The wraith-like, skeleton of a man shuddered, recalling the beautiful sight he had had witnessed as a mortal.

« Are you trembling, old man? » Irmo said in his soft voice. It had an inch of compassion in the warm and wizened voice. « And what's that on your cheek? »

Ki-Yong muttered, with an unusual edge to the deep voice, that it was a pimple; and begged Irmo to lead him where he would.

« You know the way? » The Vala of Dreams asked.

« Remember it?! » cried Ki-Yong with fervour. « I could walk through these streets blindfold! »

A metallic horn began to soar. The horns of Rohan and Gondor echoed throughout the elvish streets. Festive drums and wooden Shun flutes joined the Southern Noldor singing. The familiar wooden and dark Rhûnn lutes seemed to wail alongside the Gondorian horns and Rohirrin drums. The thundering of this mixed orchestra made the bard stutter a few curses in the Black Speech.

For a moment, Ki-Yong flinched and sought to slither to a dark corner. But then, as the dozens of Rohirrim and Gondorian soldiers marched upon the streets, literally walk through his shade and Fëa, he sighed. This was a mere ghost of a memory. All the Men and the Elves ignored him. None of them could see the demon witnessing their celebrations.

Then, the image became blurry as Irmo pushed him closer to the palace. Now, they were in the very entrance.

An aged man with a black and red tunic struggled to run. It almost seemed he was accompanying Ki-Yong and Irmo. However, he was unaware of the two. He had a tarnished copper skin and, while trudging through the elvish streets, a hood covered partially the southern features. The mouth was ruined with a long scar that went from one ear to another. However, some balm or sorcerer's spell, the man managed to maintain both jaws together. He limped, but the spidery, leathered hands held tightly to its cane. The familiar black and coiling dragon around the cane's head made Ki-Yong recognise him.

« Father? » Ki-Yong murmured in awe.

« No, Ki-Yong. The man you see here has long forgotten he has a family. » Irmo said with a melancholic tune in the warm and melodic voice.

The elderly man in black and crimson tunic, the left side of the hem ragged and stained with greyish dust, steadied himself before climbing the stairs with the cane. The old southern nobleman growled.

« Lord Elrond! Do you think it is wise to claim victory over a very much alive enemy?! »

At this, the Obsidian Palace lord snorted.

« Who are you to question King Isildur and Elrond's tale, you traitor of a wraith? They have slain Sauron; he disappeared once the Lord of Gondor cut Gorthaur's index finger. Leave my town-Now! » He motioned with the blade.

Ki-Yong shuddered. He have had heard about this meeting, though he was not present. His father had had told him a lie: Sauron was indeed defeated. He have had become a weakened spirit, but slain forever? The old bard would laugh at that…If there ever was a reason to laugh.

A host of fifteen armed men walked about, the rattle of their black armour sounding as the noise of hissing chains. Their curved swords were rusted, a few spears were broken. One of them held a black and heavy iron-wrought mace. Although the flag of the Lidless Eye fluttered about, pretty much of it was torn and half-burnt. They rushed to their lord and began to ask questions in the same language Ki-Yong often sung: the Shun dialect.

A long silence downed upon the astonished crowd of Men and Elves.

His father smiled. The grin was terrible of appearance, as though speaking that tongue and weaving spells of horrific nature had drained the humanity in him. He turned at the "traitorous" Rhûn Easterlings and to the Shun musicians. Although one could not see his eyes, Ki-Yong was certain he was glaring at the people.

« I am more than an elderly wraith! I am a living man! And I shall deal with you as a living lord who has been insulted! »

The dark and low voice made the little elleth gasp in horror. However, she did glance at the man and the black company of soldiers, some more exhausted than others did. Their scars and the missing teeth and the blood pooling from their armour was evidence enough what they were: a part of Sauron's vast army.

So much fear and hatred the figure invoked in the little elleth's eyes, Ki-Yong yelped, shame written in the light amber eyes. How was it he never have noticed the hatred the little elf-girl's eyes hold? Crying in anguish, the old man clutched at his white hair. Startled at the violence of his kin's voice, the old bard glared at the crinkled, lank form of his father.

« Hold that tongue, old wretched man! You stand before a child and an Elf-King's daughter! »

« These were the men I was sent with to invade that citadel?! » Ki-Yong stammered. « I remembered they were stronger! »

« These were but the shadows of things that have been…This is the full truth of how it happened; it is not my fault they have happened-»

« You could have stopped me and my father! » Ki-Yong snarled. « Don't show me any of these things! Why do you delight to torture me? »

« Ki-Yong, I must! » Irmo stated in a cool voice.

« No more! » the sorcerer growled, tears of frustration and shame staining the sunken and distorted cheeks. His Fëa was twisted and writhing in hatred. « What is the purpose of this? »

The faceless and white elf-like being shook his head in disappointment. He pinioned him in both his arms and forced him to observe what happened next.

The colours in the summery sky have had vanished, melting into what appeared to be the flames of burning wood. There was no longer the turquoise, morning sky following the lanterns. These were off, the scent of flowers still lingering in Ki-Yong's fëa. He could hear a few footsteps. A squad of drunken Orcs marched alongside the hooded men in greyish and brown mantles. Holding a torch, the elderly black-clad commander grinned.

The old man in black armour glanced at a young man. The light brown eyes were the same as Ki-Yong.

« They will see if our master is alive. We may not have the Nazgûl here-but, my son, we are still sorcerers. Pour this alongside the oil that lights the Elvish lanterns. »

A foul and reeking stench emanated from the greenish flask.

« Father…» The young Ki-Yong asked. « What is this? I thought this element was forbidden- »

One of the Orcs whipped the fourteen year old with a tight and thorn-edged cat. A few strings of blood began to shimmer in the cold moonlight.

« Isildur does not need to know where we acquire this! » The old man hissed in the Black Speech. « It is an order, Ki-Yong. I expect thee to act as the only son I have expected to come from your mother's accursed Númenórian womb! »

Tightening a grappling hook, the young Ki-Yong began to walk. Steadily, he poured some of the green liquid into the lanterns. One of the tree' branches waved, as though it wished to batter him on the face. Cursing, the boy spilled some of the wildfire into the tree.

A young Gondorian attempted to catch Ki-Yong, but the Ku-naira boy threw a black dagger, aiming to his throat. Even if, in his nightmares, Ki-Yong had watched the scene replay repeatedly, he never had winced at the sight. The taller Gondorian falling to his black and soft boots was an image that brought him a sense of pride. He had killed a grown man long when he was a boy. What made him sigh and shake the head was how he had cut himself in that tree.

« Poor boy. » The old bard murmured.

The Vala snapped his head at him, a sudden heat emanating from him. The bright and hallow light was so scalding Ki-Yong's fëa would be destroyed were he to touch him.

The otherwise warm voice had grown fierce and powerful, as though a thousand canons were ringing in the demon's ears:

« Poor boy?! Do you not find some ounce of compassion for the fëar that were wandering, lost, screaming for shelter until they found their paths to the West or to the Halls of Mandos, Ki-Yong? Because of you and your father, hundreds, if not thousands of people died at that night…Save for Isildur, Elrond, the little Hîthuen and her aunt, no one survived that fire! »

« When have I met the Dark Lord personally, O Ancient Vala?! The Red Lidless Eye was never that close to me! I am not that evil! »

Irmo then grasped the skeleton-like, blueish ghost that was Ki-Yong's spirit. The demon shrieked in pain. The Vala's hand suddenly was freezing cold. The noble, deep and melodic voice echoed in a solemn, stern tone:

« Lord Manwë was indeed too merciful. If you do not remember all that has happened during these centuries, then I will make you remember! Hîthuen has escaped those fires you have created, but you took something from her: something far more precious than the right to live. »

A scream followed the Vala's words.

Ki-Yong turned, and saw a black cloud shaped like a claw dragging the very same _elleth_ he had seen in that balcony. She was sobbing, her face red from crying, hands stained with the blood from both parents. She coughed a raspy and hiccuping breath.

The giant cloud shaped like a claw returned to its original shape, a black scroll with the Red Eye shimmering on it.

Zhèng-Ul seemed to hover on the bright, shuddering and little figure. Crouching his rattling chain-sickle making a sound as though it was a giant cobra. The old Ki-Yong smiled knowingly: his ancient kin was the only figure there capable of true magic.

Ki-Yong's father, Hwang-Nìn glared at the Ring-Wraith.

« Now, you will give my son the privilege to take the little elf-girl to- »

« Our Master is weak. I shall deliver the elf myself. » The cold voice hissed in the Black Speech.

Suddenly, a short sword separated old Hwang-Nìn from his left hand. Ki-Yong gasped. Mîthuen breathed in a hitched and ragged voice, the still pulsing and bloodied male hand laying on her lap.

A growl echoed from the man with the Lidless Eye painted in the tunic. It was as though a wolf was beaten with a stinging hot rod. That wrinkled face was twisted in a mixture of amazement and anger. A incoherent string of taunting, chuckling came from the Shun-Númenórian.

Ki-Yong winced, the look of the little _elleth's_ panicked glazed eyes began to change as she saw another sword, aiming at the Ring-Wraith.

The Lord of Imladris appeared behind the dark commanders rear.

« The treaty is over, Lord of the Black Scorpion! »

As Hwang-Nìn glared at the Lord of Rivendell, a screech of searing pain echoed from Zhèng-Ul.

« I remember this-I was hiding near a pillar and could see the old man talking to Zhèng-Ul's wraith form. I was too fearful. I could not fathom such a figure to appear in the western south! But I-My grip on the pillar was bone-white when I heard Zhèng-Ul's words! »

The younger Ki-Yong screamed when the Ring-Wraith called to the Ring's power. His breath came hard and fast. A searing stream of black magic seemed to underline the Ring-Wraith's figure. He could hear the whispers of hate and blood-lust. With a fierce ravaging force akin to a skull-splitting mace, Sauron's power made both the past Ki-Yong and the present one groan and ache, sinking to their knees. Clutching against the stone, he did not see the distant ghost releasing a terrible and chilling laugh.

Elrond swung his blade faster than the Ring-Wraith's sickle. A piercing and low scream hovered the ground, as both Ki-Yong and the Ring-Wraith roared. It was draining him. The _Ring-Wraith_ vanished in a cloud of fell smoke, leaving only a pile of empty armour and a cloak. The older Ki-Yong could feel the dark magic hovering, dark and menacing words now a whispering hiss.

« Stop it, Lord Irmo! I beg you-! I cannot bare this memory! I'd rather have it a blank! » The older Ki-Yong hissed weakly, his transparent, blueish form curled in the floor.

Nevertheless, the Vala of Dreams did not give in. His touch was relentless, heavy and steel-like.

« That day, Elrond saved both you and your father from the Wildfire. Your father tried to kill both you and himself. He snatched you and attempted to offer one last sacrifice to the Servant of Morgoth. He wanted you to serve as a stepping stone to Morgoth's return. But you pleaded Lord Elrond to save you. »

The young _elleth_ trembled, the bloodied dagger shaking in the small hand, and the hand of Hwang-Nìn, the Easterling Scorpion in the other. Her eyes were glazed, a determined expression overtaking them.

« Come now. What are you waiting for? It was so easy for your niece to slice my hand! »

A few lights began to flicker a few yards from the strange group. The roar of reeking Wildfire booming did not make the young _elleth_ flinch. Ki-Yong was the one who was crouching, the soaking wet eyes darted at his father.

The ghost-like Ki-Yong sighed, a desperate look in the amber eyes:

« _Poor boy-Poor Ki-Yong!_ »

Elrond seemed pensive: one hand held a sobbing Hîthuen, and the other rested on the sword.

Irmo continued to narrate what Ki-Yong's Fëa and his mind had forgotten:

« Elrond understood...If he were to leave your father to die, he would be teaching his niece a cruel lesson. Just as your father had had taught you to be cold, he would have made Hîthuen grow cold. He would have committed the same mistake Fëanor had. »

The Lord of Imladris began to mutter a few words, words that, until that strange night, Ki-Yong had never grasped.

« Your son...He is far too young to know the pain of losing a parent. »

« What? What are you saying, Lord of Imladris? I cannot hear what your cowardly Elven mouth is saying! »

« No...To have your son deprived of a father's love... This Wildfire! I know not how you conjured its powers or how you have attained it-! Some foul reeking dust from a dragon's stomach no doubt. This means, whoever is selling it, was in league with the Dark Lord! You will come with me to Imladris, old Scorpion Lord!»

« _I would rather die!_ » Hwang-Nìn snapped in the Black Speech, switching to the common Westron as he grinned sickeningly at the two Elves. « You would rather see me dead, wouldn't you? »


	6. Freedom is never Free

**_Hello...I was inspired to write a lot more. Actually, the first paragraphs of this were written before I finished the last chapter. Still haven't found the right inspiration to do some collage in photoshop. I am not much of an illustrating artist as I'm a writer, but I like to do it from time to time. Had a dream about me drawing in a tablet my OC Dovaïna and Hîthuen as two different parts of female courage. The Moonlight by Malek Jandali inspired to create the poem, since Dovaïna's original Haradrim name is Badra-Halayin-Yushq (Serpent in the Moonlight)._**

 ** _Why I have imagined Irmo and the other Valar as interchangeable, shapeshifting creatures? Well, because they were basically, Gods to every race in Middle-Earth, and while studying Intercultural Studies and Linguistic Notions, I noticed how although in the Christian Bible there are references and many epithets to the same God, there is also different epithets in the Tannakh, the Hebrew Bible. In the Al-Coran there is also many epithets for the same God. I can see why Tolkien said how " and he made first the Ainur, the Holy Ones, that were the offspring of his thought, and they were with him before aught else was made". Eru made the Valar and the Maiar based in his thought. When you study the Bible in depth, you can see a lot of biblical references in the Silmarillion. CatarinaK, why are you basing yourself in the Silmarillion when Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit are thousands of years after the Valaquënta? Well, Tolkien pratically wrote most of Lord of the Rings in the Silmarillion and the Book of Lost Tales. Let us all remember how "Spoilers: five of the Maiar descended upon the Middle-Earth to see what Sauron was up during the first millenia of the Third Age"._**

 ** _Hope you leave some reviews and thank you for passing by._**

 ** _:)_**

* * *

Ki-Yong felt that part of his Fëa wanted to remain in that dream. The Vala of Dreams did not relinquish the hold. He felt his Fëa being transported to another place. All manner of creatures lurked in the shadows, never fully seen; silver and bright emerald lights shimmered faintly. Suddenly, the bright and darkened leaves that were Kato Ki-Yong's memories appeared. In the middle of the most beautiful and marvellous garden, he had seen. Alongside white birds and eagles that made a sound like thunder - exactly the sound described by his ancestor's texts. Silver willows, flowers and lakes that outstretched for miles. And he winced once again, feeling embarrassed that somehow, a part of him rested in this garden. Shrivelled, sickly and disgusting ivies, stretching in the many dark trees, threatened any beautiful and white tree.

« _Shenme Oe wäng khekkya_ ? » His Fëa suddenly became aware of a language he had not spoken since his father's death.

Ki-Yong Kato could feel the rush of many memories, the syllabary, pictogram and logophram-like scripts of his father's scrolls rush. He could pick any old bamboo-made scroll and point the exact characters and glyphs in the Shun script where his ancestors had pointed what they said to be the Place of Dreams and Memories. Many Seers before him, Seers that belonged to his people, narrated stories about this wondrous place. It had been centuries since he remembered any of these legends, any of the songs accompanied by the low, guttural throat-chanting and the ritual drums. It felt like he had been kept in a stale, suffocating basement his entire life and was now only allowed out in the fresh open air of the forest. It was strange, yet refreshing.

How was this called in his native tongue?

« Hue-Kwaang-Zhwazhwa. »

« Yes, I suppose your people, the Shun do have a nice depiction of my Garden of Dreams. » Irmo seemed to smile, as he gestured

« Mairon's memories are quite close to yours. For a moment, I feared you had become like one of the Ring-Wraiths and the vines that comprised the fallen Maia would swallow your tree. This tree is part of your Fëa. To cut it, it will mean you will lose your memory permanently. »

The crystalline, eerie Fëa turned into a glowing and blueish flare as Ki-Yong hissed, the dark and deep voice tinged with murderous intent:

« Please do…It will do me a favour-All of mortal races mean nothing to me, save for my family's revenge. I shall offer you half of my Fëa and you may destroy Sauron as you wish-! I will be your Wraith! »

« No! » The Vala cried, springing to his feet. His voice sounded cracked, as though a thousand thunders were rumbling. « You do not know what you are saying! That curse you bear…Not even a Vala as I would have the power to contain it. That, added to Mairon's evil running through those veins-No! I would gain a power so terrible and dark even Valinor would tremble! I have shown your tree, Ki-Yong: every conscious, mortal, every Child of Ilùvatar has a tree here. I have shown a part of the past you have forgotten, I have uprooted a few of Sauron's weeds for you, alongside Melian's spirit. You are a Man and a descendant of the Noldor Eldar, despite that curse. »

« A corrupted, wretched descendant of the Noldor Eldar I would make! » the demon hissed with a sneer.

The deep and melodic voice chuckled, but it was a pitiful laugh. Something that rolled and one might feel nostalgic, as the wind carrying the leaves in autumn.

« You have met Hîthuen after the brutal massacre of her people, but she-well her memories are child-like and unrealistic. I shall take you to see my perspective on that day. »

Once again, the Vala took hold of Ki-Yon's hand. Once again, Ki-Yong could not see through the bright veil that covered the Vala's face.

A rush of colours and blurred lines of silvery lights passed before the sorcerer's spirit. Then, they saw a man, hooded; walking through many of the streets of…They were fuzzy to Ki-Yong's eyes. This time, the background and the landscape were blurred. Ki-Yong felt he was seeing all through the reflection of a glacial cold lake in autumn. Only the characters in this memory were underlined in bright shades of gold and silver. A few Elves walked. This was no elven town. However, the white and bright marble reminded him of something.

« My memory only focuses in the people…Or at least, this one does. Can you see that tree-»

The emblem of the silver tree in the field of green-they were in the Kingdom of Gondor, in Minas Tirith.

« I think I have sneaked through the Gondorian guards once. »

Sitting in one of t e benches near the beautiful tree, the hooded man took from a bag a long instrument. The man in dark grey tunic sighed, a deep and velvety quality to the voice proof enough Ki-Yong was staring at his younger self. A twenty year old Ki-Yong.

« Do you see me touching any branch of that tree…? No, then leave me in peace. I only wish to contemplate in the freedom nature has to offer. »

« Good met-young man-You aren't to sit near that tree. » The old and weathered Gondorian glanced at the small poem in Tengwar script the youth held in the palm of his hand. Fine, thin handwriting shone in a cursive and blood-red colour. Unlike most Quenya poems, the letters were gracefully woven in a vertical order, instead of a horizontal line. The young Kato Ki-Yong read carefully by the poem, mesmerised by the beauty of it. A drawing surrounded the poem. Three dragons flew around a blood-red pentagram.

Roughly translated to the Common Westron, the poem was translated to these verses:

 _Three Dragons all gathered,_

 _Three little princesses of the Realms of Men and Elves_

 _Silver like the Stars of Varda were her hair,_

 _Copper as the forges of Aulë was the second's hair,_

 _Black as the shadows of Mordor was the latter_

 _A New Era will begin,_

 _Silvery dragon, copper dragon, black dragon - all is cinders!_

 _All gathered round the shade of the Blood Fire._

 _All gathered to summon Ancalagon Kin!_

« You wish me to fetch you something, young man? A glass of water? »

« I do not want anything from you. I was reading my father's last words. »

« Well you may read those elvish words anywhere else. Lady Hîthuen is about to reach this place-»

« Hîthuen? » The young, handsome and olive-skin man mouthed the word, a mixture of horror, shame and insecurity filling the otherwise melodic voice.

Kato Ki-Yong's Fëa was unanimously sympathising with his younger self. Loathsome, completely loathsome. He had murdered her parents with the wildfire; he was the one who had had summoned the dreadful Maia. Ki-Yong could not even pronounce the name internally. It would invite that horrid Fëa into the Garden of Memories.

« One of her distant kin wishes to see the last Númenor white Tree, the one that descends from the sapling the Valar had offered to Isildur.»

« Oh…»

The cold and brown eyes reflect a somewhat indifference towards the guards, but the youthful, dark haired man sighed. He walked a few yards, towards the Minas Anor' marbled stairs, a peculiarly determined and guarded aura shining in those hooded eyes.

« Quickly, boy! Use that stealth spell! » The older and undying Ki-Yong shouted at the younger version of himself, who seemed too stunned to even move.

A small snowflake fell on the young man's olive and oval cheeks.

A female giggle echoed throughout the Minas Arnor outer halls. Hîthuen's black hair and childish appearance had not changed. She remained a little child. Deprivation of her parents had not struck the little elleth. When Ki-Yong was wondering how could that snowball had materialised, Hîthuen appeared, a little smile in her cheeks.

A muted gasp echoed from the young bard while making a solemn bow.

« Ah Lady Hîthuen! » One of the Gondorian guards gasped. « We were expecting the Elf King a few hours later. »

A younger version of Ki-Yong was smiling politely at the young elf, who seemed to have no recollection of him. The silver leaves of the tree seem to dance as a touch of wind began to touch them. Its warm breath made both the young and the present Ki-Yong shudder in emotion. It was as though the tree was singing an ancient hymn to the Valar. Sudden warmth spread upon the young Easterling's legs and hands. At the ruffling of the white leaves against his cheeks, the young Ki-Yong smiled.

« Nimloth likes you! » Hîthuen said. « She has heard you playing. »

« Why would a tree be "pleased" with my music? Most trees in my country were small olive trees and wild pines. They were nothing as magnificent and as graceful as this. »

Crossing the spectral-like arms, the older Ki-Yong snorted impatiently.

« Why is she smiling back at me? Doesn't she know I was the one who nearly abducted her-I could have taken her to Mordor! »

« Hîthuen's memories about the night she lost her parents are nightmares muted by her stay in Rivendell. She does not recognise you because you yourself find it hard to believe the monster that entrapped her in that poisonous chamber was created out of pure survival. The "Black Seer" is merely a mask the Dark Lord has given to you, as he could have offered it to any other family. Sauron has not chosen any man or woman, but he could have done it, it could have been another race to take that curse. »

Ki-Yong shuddered in fear and repulse at hearing the name of his former Master. Even though he had never met the Maia personally, he had felt the Dark Magic pulsating through him many times.

A sword was pointed at a younger Ki-Yong.

« That is quite enough! I will not have you pry into Lady Hîthuen! Leave this blessed corner, foul demon! »

« I suggest you place that sword down, old man. I am a bard, yes, but I am also a sorcerer – a Tharylliel to be more precise. »

« A Seer? Seers can do so much as predict the future and act enigmatic about it. »

Taking his hood, the man walked a few steps towards the tree. The young Ki-Yong laughed, a small smile in the small and thin lips, the dark hue of yellowish olive skin shimmering in the sunny day. His amber eyes made the Gondorian guards withdraw a few steps in surprise and fear.

« You are-! You are-You are! » One of the guards stammered.

« I am Kato Ki-Yong, you fool! » The young sorcerer snarled, a small scroll already prepared to launch at the guards.

« Huo-Lén? Is that you? » Hîthuen spoke in her sweet voice.

Ki-Yong's heart stopped as he stared dumbstruck at the vision below him.

Both the spectral, older version of Ki-Yong and the shade-like younger Ki-Yong gasped.

« Oh Valar...»

« It is you, Huo-Lén! » The little _elleth_ smiled, a curved and dazzling white moon. « I thought you were gone in the fire! »

« Young man...I think you should know something-»

A raging fire growled out of an enormous mouth, aiming at the guards. A forty to fifty feet large black serpent-like head was hovering at them, a demonic glint in its eyes.

The scream that was ripped from the little _elleth_ was unending. She wasn't even aware that it was her that was making the dreadful noise, not until she felt the burning pain in her throat, and began to gasp. Ki-Yong glared at the guards, who seemed to gasp for air, the dragon-fire filled with some acidic poison that ate their muscles second by second. Each of the ten men fell, their screams only lasting a few tenths of second. Blood pooled from the charred corpses, staining the ground. A few of the silvery and dark-green leaves began to fell, some brushing the stunned ellf maiden, while others streaming across an astonished Ki-Yong's black cloak. Ki-Yong could read how fearful the _elleth_ really was.

 _« She doesn't think this is real!_ » The ghostly Ki-Yong hissed, a regretful gaze wrenching his wrinkled and bony face.

Ki-Yong breathed deeply and glanced at the young _elleth,_ running towards her with a speed he did not know to possess. Sight, smell, hearing, taste - all of the Númenórian, half Shun man's senses numbed, to a point all he could feel was the scorching heat of the wingless drake's presence. The little _elleth's_ tears had moved him. She had all withdrew her small dagger. He wasn't running to protect the tree. He was running with the two curved Shunkaïadrim blades to protect the little elf.

Taking a raspy breath, the girl whimpered, the black and cat-like claw moving towards her. Fear, despair, anger, rage, disbelief, sorrow-so much could be told from those watery and green eyes.

Then, suddenly aware of the two souls that were staring at her, Hîthuen turned her white and dark green tunic at Ki-Yong. A flash of the dagger and she moved it towards the enormous drake. Her eyes had hardened, as though she wished Ki-Yong's father was there. Those otherwise innocent eyes were now filled with hatred.

Like a leak that turned a trickle into an unstoppable, devastating tide from a river, Ki-Yong's hatred muffled other emotions. The dragon that was attempting to take the little _elleth,_ the dragon that had those ruby and hypnotic eyes...He would not be swayed by the thick, syrupy feel the dragon's gaze caused him. He would rather die than to allow that beast to take Hîthuen! Feeling the energy rising so quickly that it went past all mind and Fëa-like barriers, that made him visibly shake. A choir of screeching voices seemed to float all over the young Ki-Yong's Fëa.

As though it sensed the dangers of fighting a Seer, the dragon motioned with its tail cautiously, a warning growl vibrating from its jaws.

« You will not touch her! » Ki-Yong roared, feeling the wind picking at his Raw Magic, like a lightning rod.

Standing in front of the dragon with dark eyes, he gestured at the sky:

« Leave or I'll make out of you a case for my Morin Khuur. »

Apparently, the dragon did not understand the command. With what seemed to a cruel grin, the dragon whipped the young _elleth_ with one flick of the tail's end. Falling with her face on the ground, she groaned in pain.

Ki-Yong allowed all dark and raw magic to flow outside, straight to the place he had narrowed in the sky.

« You-You! useless beast! » He snarled, the pain from the spell making him weak.

Suddenly, a bolt from the sky descended upon the dragon. Striking the creature with a powerful blast, the lightning bolt nearly knocked it unconscious.

But the dragon held fast to his talons, bracing against the impact as he used all strength to remain awake. He had managed to slid a few inches before the bolt had hit, and it had merely wounded. A black and seven inches, bleeding wound lay in the left rear-leg. Shaking his head, the dragon roared, the sound as loud as Ki-Yong's artificial and dark storm.

At this, Ki-Yong laughed, the sound chilling and animalistic. He was faltering in the footing. However, the cruel grin mirrored the dragon's, as he stood at the feral, murderous creature.

« You wish to play with me, lizard? I can send the spirits to strip the flesh from your bones...I may be weak, but I will die before seeing you taking Lord Elrond's kin! »

Shuddering where she stood, Hîthuen glanced at the man she had thought to be a lost childhood friend. Her eyes wavered, still soaking wet with tears. Ki-Yong was like an intimidating Maia, his hand blazing with scalding and powerful energy, a bright and blueish light hovering one inch from his hand.

As though he grasped everything the sorcerer had just said, the massive wyrm nodded, and walked in an elegant fashion dismissively, the tail whipping about in anger and frustration, an hissing growl making the very air around them to shake and echo.

Finally giving a space to unleash her sadness, Hîthuen crumbled in on her herself, pulling the knees to her chest, burying her head beneath them and sobbed.

Ki-Yong had no idea what to do, so he stood there. Then, he sunk to his knees as well, the energy he had spent in frightening the drake enough to drain and weary. He had felt pity for the girl when he thought she had sunk to an endless melancholy, hope when he found out otherwise, and concern as he had tended to her injuries due to the wildfire and possessiveness when he had protected her. Now, he was back at the sentiment of pity, pity for her... She, who had witnessed the agonising and tormenting deaths of the Gondorian men.

« Poor boy-the little _elleth_ has made you feel more these-hours? Days? Than your whole life! »

A voice interrupted both the younger and older Ki-Yong's thoughts.

« Lady Hîthuen-what in the name of Eru-? »

Lord Elrond came, rushing behind the present Lord of Gondor, an alarmed and stunned expression clouding his outwardly calm eyes.

« Hîthuen, we heard the dragon-bell echoing its tolls! What happened to-»

« The dragon-He was struck by-he was struck! » Hîthuen stammered in a nervous, breathless tone.

The Vala of Dreams sighed.

« You saved that _elleth Princess_ , Ki-Yong. For that, the Lord of Imladris conceded a pardon to you and your descendants. Perhaps you have forgotten about it, but he has not. »

* * *

A Morin Khuur playing a melancholic and grievous song. That was what Ki-Yong heard as he arrived in the following memory. He all but guessed what the piece was about. This was when he had completed twenty five years of age, and his father was slain by the remaining Black Númenorians for the failure. Although the Elves of Rivendell had a tight watch on both him and Hwang-Nìn, the old man managed to escape. He was walking with his _Muorin-Khazgh_ in one hand, when a couple of Orcs and Northern, black armoured Men ambushed the Elvish squad. They saw what seemed like an autumn garden, many white marbled benches and wooden seats. A spring seemed to be surrounded by many oak, centuries-old golden-like trees. A young man rested his head and shoulders in one such stone bench, a black and ancient leathe cape covering the bench. No chains kept him in Rivendell. And yet, the older Ki-Yong could feel this younger version of himself felt guilty over his father's evil. Next to him, a golden box the size of a man's head was cracked open, the silvery and complex lock broken. A few drops of blood stained the white stone and polished grounds. The box dropped some sort of Human fluid. Ki-Yong could not believe his father had tried to escape.

Although there were many flowers and all sorts of trees Ki-Yong would like to take note and make a poem about, a grieving expression painted the young Shun's face.

Staring at the sky with a disheartened and frustrated frown, the young Seer began to sing a song he recalled from when his father was "one with the Lady Earth". As he strummed the Morin Khuur he could hear the plains. He was relieved the Elves were people who respected the earth and the nature, for, originally, the Shun were like that as well.

Irmo placed one hand around the skeleton-like demon's ghost-like form.

« This was when you wrote and left a piece of music. »

« I-I! I do not remember this !»

« I will help you, my Son... I thought you would like this particular memory since Hîthuen was with you and you-for a moment - had an ounce of kindness and brotherly affection for her. »

Ki-Yong growled, the ruby eyes flaring at the faceless Vala.

« I do not need any of your assistance! »

At this reply the Vala huffed in frustration, his voice booming, powerful enough that knocked the breath out of the Fëa, a rush of warm and searing Energy, flushing the Fëa. Irmo's voice was like that of a summer wave caressing a beach and the thunder in a seastorm.

« Why-You-! You fool of a Tharyiliel! That freedom you have nowadays-the freedom you had had as young man...You were the one who earned the latter. The one you have nowadays-It is no freedom! Come, I will show you how even if people think their freedom can be easily snatched, they may recover it. All Free Peoples may have a chance to gain their freedom, if they fight it. »

And, in the blink of an eye, they were travelling at an immeasurable speed, the demon Seer wincing, feeling his Fëa twisting and stretching beyond the limits of time and space.

* * *

 _Oh my dear Moon,_

 _How can I gaze deeply into_

 _my poor friend's eyes,_

 _Deer-like eyes,_

 _Tempting eyes,_

 _Oh God! Oh God!_

 _What bewitching eyes!_

Dovaïna's sweet voice reached Ki-Yong's Fëa.

« Lord Irmo-That voice...»

« The raven-haired "dragoness". Come, Ki-Yong, she matters, for her mother's land in Essos was nearly destroyed by the war between the conquering Black Númenorians and the Haradrim. Until the reigning Haradrim clan and her mother's clan decided Dovaïna's mother would serve as a peace offering to the Harad lord. »

During the white tunnel-like realm that seemed to fill the old Easterling, half Númenórian's sight, Ki-Yong shook the head, a crooked smile dancing in his lips.

« An arranged marriage, no doubt. »

The Vala sighed, the veil covering his face changing for a bit, and all of a sudden, the divine spirit's Fëa had a rather striking presence, with more amethysts adorning the black - was it not silvery and white before? The amethyst, warm eyes were now surrounded with kohl-like ink.

« Yes...It did begin as you say. Let us see the first day after the seventy-five day period of virginity the Haradrim brides hold. »

A woman came out of a velvety and black tent, her hair dyed in dark blue. Black beads adorned the long tress. Copper and silvery coins jingled in both her feet' ankle and the earthy-red skirt. A four feet long veil reached from her ears to the small and green eyes. These enticing eyes were underlined with kohl. Somehow, Ki-Yong guessed this was Dovaïna's mother, a product of a long-destroyed Dothraki and a long-forgotten Haradrim clan. A golden circlet rested in the silken, sandy-coloured forehead. Then, Ki-Yong was surprised how Dovaïna's mother had a resembling crystall and bell-like voice to that of Dovaïna. However, the Khaleesi had a laugh, an optimism that was not bleak or covered in the same melancholy he saw Dovaïna. She was taller than Dovaïna, five feet and eight inches.

Then, following her, was a man dressed in green and black clothes, a black serpent embroidered in the rich tunic. A curved, scimitar-shaped sword rested in a black sheath with a serpent carved in the handle. His skin was darker than Dovaïna. There was a noble quality in the noble Haradrim' eyes. He was clean-shaven, something that made Ki-Yong wrinkle his seemingly non-existent eyebrows. Chiselled and wrinkled cheeks made the mature man and his deep-set dark eyes and the hooked nose gave him a wary and dark expression. Dovaïna's mother was clearly younger than this man.

She stood rather close to the Black Serpent lord, a look of hope in the small, hooded green eyes.

« _Is there something you wish to tell me, my Moon?_ »

Dovaïna's mother blushed slightly, the dark olive skin flushing in the corner of her eyes.

« _I merely...I found a book I was curious about. These letters are so very alike those of your people, my Lord._ » She spoke in the Dothraki tongue.

« Oh... _That is an Elvish account. Ancient and fair race that lived far to the North, and it is said they are the first to be created by the_ Ikhar. _It was a gift the Lord of Gondor has offered to my people. It is a shame I cannot read it. »_ The Haradrim lord muttered in what seemed to be a disappointed tone.

« _But...I can read these. It reminds me of a book of poems my grandmother taught me._ »

« He doesn't appear to be wicked, o great Vala. »

« That is because he was not. »

The Haradrim lord with the spiralled black painting in his neck and cheeks glanced in a wary manner to his wife.

« _Li-_ _shakrankh...what has made you so pensive?_ »

« _I can read these for you. Would you like that, my Sun and Stars? »_

At this, the lord acquiesced.

* * *

 _Hey... I hope you liked this chapter. Ki-Yong's younger, mortal appearance is more like that of a North East-Asian men, but I was leaning towards Mongolian and Korean men. And yes, Ki-Yong was only bluffing at the dragon. He had neither the power, nor the energy to summon spirits; his ancestors have a dominating part in his curse, not the other way around!_

 _The Shun People is a creation of mine, I do not own Tolkien's universe. The Harad-Ayu dialect is also a creation of mine. I thank DONOVAN94 for the inspiration._

 ** _EDIT:_** _Made some edits because I felt this last part of Ki-Yong's memory was unexplained._

 **Shun vocabulary**

Hue-Kwaang-Zhwazhwa (self explanatory in the chapter)

Shenme Oe wäng khekkya _-_ Literally translated - What sort of realm is it?

Equivalent translation: What sort of realm is this?

 **Harad-ayu vocabulary**

\- Li-shakrankh - My Obsidian Arrow.


	7. Freedom written in blood

**_Please forgive my characters' dirty jokes in the end. Very GoT in my opinion._**

 _"You dig for oil,_

 _You dig for gold,_

 _You dig your own grave"_

 _Unknown poem_

Lórien sighed, in a sound that expressed the nostalgia of seeing these familiar figures.

« Kahuya-Wôìn, Dovaïna's mother, the Peaceful Ones Queen, Lady of the Amber Houses. Her great-great-grandmother, daughter of Noldor' Eldar never accepted the gift Sauron, the Deceiver, had offered to other Nine Kings. Many of her people said that Kahuya-Wôìn held the beauty and courage her half-elvish ancestor had once held. »

Lighting a few candles, Kahuya took the petite, green and square-shaped earrings from her ears. A pattern of regular, greenish, regular and square-shaped spirals was woven into her left shoulder.

« Why is that name familiar to me? » Ki-Yong muttered, stunned with the almond-shaped green eyes and the serene quality of them.

« Because her grandmother was the woman you encountered in the desert...»

« To know the origin and the context of this book, you must know, Sun and Stars, that my mother was the last descendant of a long lost Southern people known as the Blue Sky Ones - _Sakwaïhuia_. » Suddenly, a gust of wind caressed softly the tent, as though by uttering that ancient tongue, a sudden sadness and nostalgia overcame the tent. Her almond and green eyes were profoundly sad, the solemn and brave expression fading from the oval, delicate features. « My Grandmother and my Mother before her wrote in their tapestries a history of blood and countless wars. »

« By your ancestors, my People were called the "Peaceful Ones". Perhaps we were named thus since we had no qualms with the People of Númenor or with the white "Men of the West". For many years, my People were subjugated by the Haradrim, the Easterlings and the Black Númenórians. I can even trace our Grand Commander, my great-great-great-grandmother as Daughter of the Wood-People. Our Elder Speech can be traced with the _Sindarin-hoahl_. My mother, my _tenin ku_ _nicihuakeh_ (this is how we say "my mother" in the Elder Speech), often taught me the _Sindarin-hoahl_ and the Elder Speech. This is why my father, my mother and all of my clan had green eyes. Our instruments were made of the same animal bones you saw decorating my single woman' tent. My Mother lived in the caves south-west near the Rhûn, alongside Her People. My Lord and father, a Haradrim traveller, was different than other Haradrim. Hrazef-Yofi wished to see what lay beyond the sea. My Mother fell in love with him. And he fell enamoured with her, since both excelled in their leadership and were wise beyond their years.»

At this, the half Dothraki, half Haradrim man was wide-eyed, the spiral facial paintings moving as he fell in the cushions, earrings and the nose-piece jingling as he did so.

« My Moon... You are saying you're descended from both the Peaceful Ones and the Haradrim? I thought you to be a Dothraki and Haradrim-»

« What has made you so surprised, my Lord? My Mother wished for our People to remain peaceful, thus consented in marrying this traveller. He was the Rhûn's Royal Adviser. Alongside a young son of Ancalagon's kin and a young dragoness, my father and my mother escaped from the tyranny of the Rhûn Lord and travelled across the Middle-Earth and this beautiful continent of Essos, accompanied by his loyal blood brothers and my mother blood sisters. The Peaceful Clan that became of these twelve men and twelve women became known as the Añukkhyehuiatl - the Sea Mother Walkers. I was born in the open sea. During my childhood, I have travelled the world. When I was seven years old, my mother and I became fascinated with the northern part of Middle-Earth. My family was ambushed no sooner we arrived to the Valley of Imladris. When my Mother showed to them the green of her eyes and the small locket, the Noldor Elves recognised the only People in the East who respect the Earth. My life since my seventh spring to my sixteenth autumn had been with the Noldor. It was a blissful life, the one I lead in Imladris. This is how I learned the Quenta Silmarillion. However, no matter how fruitful, no matter how many good memories I hold of that place, nothing can erase the horror I felt...as though some sort of veil was taken from my eyes, and I saw the world as a threat to my people! »

After saying these words, the young Khaleesi (for Ki-Yong could assume this powerful Dothraki had a host of many tents) took her long earthy coloured veil. A knot pendant rested in a silvery thread. A copper-coloured dragoness encircled this two-sized knot. It was a simple and graceful piece of jewellery, shimmering faintly in the candlelight. The Lord struggled not to sneer, for he could have given her a finer piece than the small gift. From what he could see - and Ki-Yong as well - that was not even real silver, but a metal the Elves and Dwarves favoured: mithril. He himself did not like it. The Haradrim found in mithril a painful reminder why they had been cast out by the Númenór, enslaved by those men.

And yet, Ki-Yong sympathised with Kahuya-Wôìn. He knew how Elves could make beautiful things out of mithril.

The young Khaleesi seemed lost in thought, a deep fear entering those outwardly calm eyes.

« Oh...What happened? »

« A dragon, he comes in my dreams... A golden and red dragon soared the sky as we departed to my father, to the East. My mother had copper hair, a rare thing among my people but common among Elves and the Númenorian people, or so I have heard. We were about to enter Mirkwood, when the dragon touched the sky. Ten elves and twenty female Eastern warriors could do nothing against that crimson monster. I was the only survivor of that attack, merely because I was covering my head with a veil, and not with this circlet on my head. » The Khaleesi narrowed one of her fingers to the golden circlet. Her hands were shaking in anger, the eyes wincing in pain. « As for my mother, I have no idea where she is. The dragon took her. Desperately, I tried to travel on my own, knowing the path to the Rhûn plains would be perilous. »

« Then...you were sold by your father...» The half Haradrim, half Dothraki murmured, as though he loathed the idea of seeing her sold, the black eyes turning cold. He tightened his grip on the curved scimitar, a growl escaping the lips.

« It is as you say, my Lord. » The Khaleesi muttered with no regret nor hatred in her eyes. « My father picked me as though I was a ripple fruit, forgetting every kind word my mother had said. I do wonder if he lost his Fëa - his spirit - when he heard of mother's death. »

« Kahuya-Wôìn...What happened when you were told you were to wed me? »

« I was disappointed, I yelled at my father first. I run, run and run, till reaching the gardens of the palace. Then, I sobbed and cried for a fate I thought grim and unworthy. I have lived four springs and three autumns in the Valley of Rivendell. My father and his people went searching for me in the Rhûn palace gardens. My dowry was exquisite indeed, but because my father had exploited the caves where my people live - the gold there. It corrupts many Men from the West. I had no idea it would corrupt my father as well. But I have my duties...What would my People think if I had forsaken them to my father's reins? I relented. So, one of the Four Southern Queens, the Lady Itzel came and the ceremonies resumed as they should. She painted my face with the green and turquoise of the long dead lords and queens. Blood from my people was written in my legs and in my breasts. You see, my Lord, we and other Southern People think there is nothing that separates us from birds and trees. I was dressed in the colourful earthy and crimson cotton mantle with a golden pattern of spirals and three rivers, the Ancient Rivers that ran in the time when Men had only one calendar. Spiralling coils of silver were embroidered in my tunic, symbolising the almighty Lady Nine Grass, the Weeping Goddess. Quannah, one of my friends from the Southern tribes, was saddened to see me with the golden cup and the jade feathers in my hair. He felt inspired to write a poem in this immense nostalgia. His language is difficult to translate. Whether it is Westron, or the Common Seven Kingdoms, my Lord, that poem does not sound as beautiful as I heard from his tongue. He sung of Green Pastures and the Corn fields in the southern jungles, when the Northern Horses and the White and Grey horses of our tribes run and dance freely, he sung of the Wise Eldar' and their melodious voices in the Northern emerald pine forests, and he sung of the beauty of the high eagles, soaring in the sky... »

The much older Haradrim and Dothraki lord nodded.

« Did you love him? »

« No. Wan-Kekeheschkex and Quannah are warriors and poets. But their spirit of adventure has subsided. Besides, our language differences would not get past the formal greetings and a polite conversation about hunting. »

« I remember two men alongside your father, their eyes glaring at me as though I carried the plague. »

« Wan-Kekeschkex and Koatl-Quannah...They do not understand the concept of a sole marriage, that a woman must be bound to a sole man, they find it insulting. My People accept the idea a woman, a Queen can have any man she wishes to. Even the Kwankwaz'chex, the People Wan-Kkeschkex is the leader have that idea. An alliance with the Harad People (we only call the Harad since you live in the desert while we tend to draw towards caves and jungles, where food resources are plenty.

The Ao-Cuicuini, the people of my friend Quannah love their horses as much the Dothraki do, but they are nomadic and not linger around deserts. The Haradrim term-to me it's only a term the Men from the West found to put all of us in a neat and black box. »

« I do not hate them though. It was through them I have learned about the other Creation Myths. »

Ki-Yong could hear the Dothraki bow and string _Morin-Khuur_ and the leather bone percussion and the membrane sets of drums belonging to the North-western Wan-kkeschkex echo in a strange harmony. Shell-made horns blew into the wind as the rattling boxes and the flutes of the Sakwaïhuia people echoed softly in the air. The Ao-Cuicuini's flutes soared in the air as the drums boomed with an astounding force.

It was then the Serpent Lord realised the two had spent from dusk to dawn speaking about Kahuya-Wôìn and her origins.

« Koatl-Quannah is blowing the Morning Horn. I thought it was earlier. »

Lórien, until that time, had said nothing. He merely kept watching the events unfold with a small smile.

The Serpent Lord stood up, the long fur cape he used to fall asleep in the cushions and the mat draping and slithering from the powerful, tanned shoulders. He smiled at the young woman before him, a tender and understanding smile. He seemed astounded that such a beautiful woman with magnetic eyes could not feel hatred after all the horrible things that had happened due to the world's cruelty. He was absolutely touched with her loyalty to the People whom she had only seen when she was a small child.

« My Moon... Can it be possible you finish your story today this night? »

« Of course, my Lord. As long as you are a good carpenter and place the needle into my weaving basket' hole. »

Ki-Yong Kato eyed the Vala suspiciously.

« What are you trying to imply with these visions...? Kahuya-Wôìn and Dovaïna's misfortunes were not my fault! »

« No... You still do not understand this at all. I am not here to punish you in any manner, Ki-Yong. I am asking you to help the four dragonesses of the South - the four descendants of the Matriarchal Human races in the South of this earth. Which in fact, you did not-! »

« Why would I attack a nation of foolish pacifists? I'd rather protect them...»

« You were not yourself then...The Darkness took over you.»

Suddenly, a black and red shade flown over the Dothraki and the Southerner tent. A seventy feet long dragon glanced at the tents and he snorted, two red and amber spheres glowing in the morning.

Then, a voice that was familiar to Ki-Yong Kato began to echo, thundering in the air itself.

« Well done, Black-Serpent Lord. »

Kahuya-Wôìn glanced at the once clear morning sky, to find a few black clouds circling the powerful creature. Immediately, a few of her ladies-in-waiting hushed to her, fussing for her to prepare for a battle. A long jaguar mantle was placed upon her shoulders. Her long hair was tied into two-spiral buns that were decorated with jade-coloured pins shaped like butterflies. A cotton and feathered shield with small orifices containing sharp obsidian knives was placed upon her arm, while the emerald-pommel dagger reflected the steel of Dothraki swords. A long and elegant bow was fastened within a belt. It resembled those of Elvish cities, and the arrow-heads were less blunt than the arrow-heads from the south.

Slender, but as a steel blade, terrible and deadly, the lady rose from the tent, earning a choir of applause and cheer from the "Peaceful Ones". A smile arouse in Kahuya-Wôìn, the green eyes like the emeralds. These were her people; of course they would cheer and be led by her, until she died or had some children being crowned in their coming-of-age ceremony.

He seemed to be grinning at the camp of about eighty six thousand Haradrim, Wan-kkeschkex, Ao-Cuicuini Dothraki and Sakwaïhuia.

Arash-dhar glanced at his wife, and then at the expecting four thousand Haradrim and the fifteen thousand Dothraki warriors. Tightening the hold on the scimitar's

« Ajwkaey? » (My Lord?) Quannah asked in his North-western Harad speech, attempting to speak in Wan-Kekeschkex' native tongue.

« A dragon... » Kahuya-Wôìn muttered, a distant and somewhat cold expression taking over her eyes. « But...this is not the dragon I saw! »

« Who cares, Great Lady! My great-great-grandmother has caught a dragon, and I will not lay near my Grandmother's rear! » Wan-Kekeschkex growled, one obsidian spear sharpened and aimed at the beast.

Ki-Yong could not believe what he was hearing, the blueish Fëa shaking in disbelief, as the red eyes widened. That was his voice! A few Dothraki glanced at the powerful creature with astonished and some, even terrified glances.

« No-no! No-This is a lie! I never turned into a dragon! »

« You are not one of Morgoth's creations, I assure you. But Sauron is powerful enough to twist your Hröa. Your hatred for Gondor and the whole of Humanity made you become a dragon. You threatened the Black Serpent lord to give his own wife a sleeping potion, or you would kill-»

« No-No! I am not that poor woman's murderer! I may be many things, but I never harmed an innocent woman! »

« You did not harm them. You knew the Oliphaunts, the black southern horses and the force of the Great-Serpent Dothraki lord and Two Dragon-Lords was enough to stagger a small army of Gondorians, let alone a young dragon. That force Kahuya-Wôìn and Arash-Dhar had forged with their alliance was an astounding. One of the most powerful Khalasaars alongside the southern Haradrim forces and the Two Dragon-Lords... »

Quannah and Wan-Kekeschkex raised arms as they signalled their twenty five thousand men to advance and encircle the dragon. More than twenty five thousand men and women walked with fierce and bold glances at the dragon. Arrows, spears and obsidian swords were prepared, as the men and women shrieked in a howling and intimidating manner.

« Be still, you fools! » The dragon - or a somewhat turned creature what was Ki-Yong - growled. « I do not have not the time nor the patience to deal with you.I merely wish to deliver a message to Lady Kahuya Woin. »

« It is Kahuya-Wôìn, you beast! »

Startled at how cold and steel-like his dear "Moon"' voice now echoed, Arash-Dhar stumbled in his footing, the earrings and the jade nose-ring jingling.

« What do you want? I have all fulfilled the Witch-King's orders back in the Northern Mountains! »

« It is not with _you_ the Witch King is concerned. » The draconic shape of Ki-Yong Kato purred, the Black Speech accent seeping into the common Westron. « He wants the Descendant of the Raven Dragoness, the half-Elf Queen of the Peaceful Ones. »

« What would he want with me, Uròloki? »

« Your next child will fulfil a prophecy. »

Kahuya-Wôìn fingered the region around her womb, the small turquoise spirals in the Haradrim cotton tunic trembling with the dragon's scalding heat.

« _No-coneuhïak?_ »

« We never...We never did such things, beast. »

« Ha... That reminds me why the Dothraki always have one woman. » Wan-Kekeschkex laughed, one arm around the obsidian, nine feet long war-axe.

« _No-ahatleutli...You do_ realise I maintain our treaty with your People for the sole reason you are the excelled _Náhuallikahkäk_ in this whole _Khalaasar!_ » Kahuya-Wôìn declared in an eerily calm voice.

« Of course, dear Lady! My father promises are never broken... » A young man among the dozen generals with stunning dark green headdresses exclaimed. Ki-Yong could see the boy was still a child, probably only in his fifteenth spring.

The dragon blinked a few times, raising his head at the grinning man with the dark, feathered and turquoise helm. A group of twelve female and male warriors followed him, their green headdresses smaller than the Warlord. Obsidian spears were tapped against the ground as they walked with their feathered shields. Green painting was upon their bodies, and their earrings were made from silver with green feathers signifying their status. Nose-pieces were all golden and silver. The only man who seemed to have a turquoise nose-piece was Wan-Kekeschkex older uncle and a ruler of a southern district in the Clan's state-city. Two women had turquoise and jade beaded nose-pieces that formed a snake around their nostrils. Wan-Kekeschkex' younger sister, Itzam, the "Nine Obsidian Butterfly" as she was known by other State-Cities in the south of Gondor, was a ruler of the eastern part of Wan-Kekeschkex' city. Wak-Chanil, the widow Wan-Kekeschkex's youngest uncle, ruled over the western part.

The young flag-carrier was the only one of the group who had no earrings or body paintings in her face. A dark crimson veil covered her seemed to struggle with carry the thirteen-feet tall flag made of cotton with a blueish serpent curled around a complex glyph for a axe and a spear.

Wan-Kekeschkex had one fur mantle wrapped around the black tunic. One elegant shaped wooden bow was tied to his back, alongside a set of black-headed arrows and a quiver. A green human skull appeared painted in his face, the vulture, hummingbird and southern trogon bright turquoise-green feathered headdress covering nearly all of the long hair.

« Remember, Lady! Your child will be the-»

« What- what-what!? » The young lord snarled. « I am the Heir of Seven Vulture, the last of the civilised City State! I am the Náhuallikahkäk, this very same _Nimal-b'halkek Köhnköhnjkak_ here, the one I took as a boy, signals I am the Lord of the Wan-Kekeschkex Clan, of the Last Jaguar God race...! I am the official Lord and Speaker of the Gods, you beast! »

« Oh may all the Spirits help us. » Kahuya murmured, suddenly very aware what they were facing was worse than a dragon.

The older Ki-Yong soon observed how the draconic version of him was rather like him in both humour and in reasoning of the world.

« Isn't that the arrogance of Men? » The draconic form of Ki-Yong chuckled, the sound holding no humour; only a coldness that seeped into the Khal and the Khaleesi's hearts, chilling them. « To claim what they are not worthy of, »

« I am worthy by right of blood to every single jade earring, every single golden coin in my crown! » Wan-Kekeschkex hissed, the hand tightening against the spear's handle. « Nim-at'itkka would never wish me to watch a worthless worm such as the likes of you to poison the Ally of my Kingdom! »

« A worthless worm, am I? » Both the present and the past Ki-Yong muttered under each breath. « I have been here for thousands of years. My name is not remembered in the chronicles of Elves, for their warriors do not last long enough in my presence to hear it. Through the joy, and through the tears, they do not remember the name of the human who lay waste to their beautiful and black marble city to the South. I have seen the Cities of Men, the Stone Citadels of the Dwarves and the elegant Elven cities with their golden trees fall one by one, standing at nothing but ruins and ash.»

« How wonderful it must be, » Ki-Yong Kato carried one, his demonic and slit-like eyes alight with dark pleasure as he watched the Dothraki lord grow pale. « to have allies to help you when the Darkness comes to reach all of you. I have seen all of your ancestors with their defeated armies. You were no more than slaves...! »

At this, Kahuya-Wôìn sharpened the dagger, one arrow narrowed at the creature, as she tried to remember every spell the _Eldar_ had had taught her.

Arash-Dhar snorted, his swords prepared to slit the dragon's throat.

« Seize that creature! » Quannah barked at his guards in a roughened Dothraki.

« What a wicked monster, to insult our Queen! » One of the Ao-Cuicuini ladies-in-waiting commented in Dothraki.

Suddenly, the ebony and red dragon surrounded himself in smoke, making many people gasp and flinch. The smoke slithered within the tents and surrounded every human around, until the entire Khalasaar and its force was surrounded in their feet by a dark and reeking mist. Then, the smoke evaporated, making nearly impossible for the crowd to distinguish their lords, ladies and the commanders. A great panic seized over the people who gasped and coughed, struggling to see something beneath the smoke.

Arash-Dhar grasped a leather-like hand, mistaking it for one of the dragon's claws, only to find Wan-Kekeschkex, cursing in the native tongue of his grandparents.

Kahuya attempted to find some type of broken explosive, a wooden container that could have indicated what she was suspecting. Shuffling across the long and dim plains, she stretched her arms downwards, seeking for the small device which might have activated the bomb. But there was no such thing.

Then, as Kahuya withdrew an emerald-pommel dagger from her dark green tunic, a couple of hands took hold of her shoulders.

A figure leaned in to whisper to her:

« No child of yours will rule the world... »

Kahuya-Wôìn screamed in anger. Yanking herself backwards with a back-flip, she made sure the dagger would slice at least the leather-like hand holding her, the movement as perfect as though she were truly an accomplished warrior. Landing back with both hands and feet on the ground, Kahuya-Wôìn struggled to see if the man was still there, ears alert for any groan or scream of pain at the eventual bleeding of his hand. But...nothing came. There was only the sound of coughing and people apologising in many different tongues.

Fingering her necklace, she saw how the image of the dragon had something written in its refined and detailed coils in _Tengwar._ The thin and flowing Elvish letters shimmered brightly in the silver pendant. He had not stolen any of her ritual jewels or the gold circlet with the small emerald on the centre. If she have had been asked if that dragon had robbed her of anything, she would be clueless as to what to answer. The truth might had been far more ominous and sinister than any lie she could produce.

Between ashes and the flickering of timid candles, the beautiful necklace was a beacon to many of the people standing there. Many had their faces covered in soot and ashes. The figure in the darkness of the dragon-smoke had vanished. Those words were lingering in the Khaleesi's mind, as though there was an echo to the man's chilling and monotone voice.

« By all the Gods and the Feathered Ahuankh'ank of my Grandfathers-My Lady! The great winged serpent! » Quannah said, an exasperated frown deepening the young and handsome face. « He's gone! »

« Worry not, _Ajwkaey_! We'll find him. » Wan-Kekeschkex murmured, placing the battle axe as far from the Khal as possible. « We are your allies in blood and war. We shall bring you that insolent serpent's head, if need be. »

Arash-Dhar glanced at his spouse for a moment, and both lady and lord knew that was not as simple as their allies said with their heavily-accented Dothraki.

Balancing the obsidian, feathered shield into her arm, the Khaleesi sighed, the cotton and deep turquoise dyed-feathers in her shield rustling in the wind.

« He did not harm any of my People. That is what counts. »

However, as soon as the young Khaleesi said that, Wan-Kekeschkex reached for the leather-wrapped handle of his spear...A scream of disgust echoed from the warlord. A gelatinous, slippery creature was attached to the battle-axe. It screeched, giving an ominous blueish glow with its scales and threw itself upon the warrior's open shoulders - the creature's head was all jaws, needle-like and the tiny, beedy, pupiless, yellow eyes squirming at the immense sunlight. However, it seemed to bask in the immense amount of body fluids the Kekex leader had.

Almost instantly, one of Arash-Dhar's physicians cut the creature's head off with a long meat cleaver.

« A soul-snatcher! » Arash-Dhar spit out the word in Dothraki. He quickly switched to the standard Southern Haradrim speech. « I heard tales about these glowing river worms. They pollute the rivers with their eerie toxic bodies. What's it doing this far in the south? »

« Do you civilised rout have any spiritual drink? » The Easterling physician murmured, his heavy Shun accent dripping as he spoke in the Dothraki dialect.

« Cactus liqueur serves? » The flag carrier signalled with a female voice, waving a flask with her leathery, panther glove. « Oh... dear, I think the little bug will fall merely from the stench. They do not serve these in the dwarven inns. »

« Indeed. It has been two centuries since I have seen these so far from the North. This will take a few formula. Forgive my dialect's melodic spells, my Lord. »

« Are they fishes, my Lord? It certainly looks like one. » Kahuya-Wôìn murmured pensively in the Khal's ear, as a long and excruciatingly painful scream echoed from Wan-Kekeschkex's mouth. The Easterling medicine-man with two shining yellow eyes had ripped the little fish from his shoulder.

« I have a larger fish down here, my Lady. »

« There is no "painless way" to this, my Lord. » The Easterling muttered in his odd accented voice, the almond-shaped brown eyes glinting from the veil-like mask.

« That's not the first time a priest-like figure says that to me. I'd rather play with elastic-like balls in a stone hoop-court than experience it again! » Wan-Kekeschkex snarled.

« Do you appreciate the "Dark Materials", a scroll written in Black Speech thousands of years? »

« No, I have never read it, Quannah. Black Speech will be a tongue I'll never submit my poor tongue to. »

A choir of boisterous laughter echoed between Dothraki, Sakwaïhuia and Southerners.

« It just so happens Soul-Snatchers were preserved by Black Seers from the Shun tribe. They took the long fish's venom to perform black magic in some poor soul. It's rumoured these medicine-men were capable of manipulating a man's will with those worms! »

« I am no Black Seer, dear Khaleesi. » The Easterling murmured as he glanced from the dark and bead-filled veil, the headdress with blueish pearls and dark feathers jingling. « I am, indeed, a Seer, but my vocation was, indeed, saved by your master and Khal. My own initiation began when a neighbouring Clan Leader sent me a Soul-Snatcher to kill me...the thing tried to bite my water-sack off.»

« Oooh, Praise the Great Creator and the Horse Spirit... » The Khal smirked. « What a masculine manner to begin one's apprenticeship. Our dear Kekeschkexak might have shown us what a Coming-of-Age ceremony felt like! »

« I know what a Soul-Snatcher is supposed to be! I have read more than my People's Calendars! » Wan-Kekeschkex hissed.

« Oh, how pleasant to see the Human nobility does carry in such fanciful, soothing matters. » The Easterling murmured.

« How about you have the experience I have had in my fifteenth spring? » Wan-Kekeschkex's uncle glared at the man.

Kahuya-Wôìn laughed with a delighted grin in her face.

« Oh, my People never had such an interesting coming-of-age ceremony, Blood-Brother! »

* * *

 _ **Soul-snatcher...soul-snatcher, my horror moment into a dirty moment.**_

 _ **Haradrim from the Free City-States or the Ik'ahn Chi'bhal, the Obsidian Tongue (not to confuse with the Black Speech):**_

 _Nim-at'itkka_ \- My great-grandmother

 _Nimal-b'halkek Köhnköhnjkak - "Our glyph, our symbol"_ literally translated, it's a permanent body carving with a sylex blade.

 _Ahuankh'ank -_ A deity which its name roughly means "Our Great Serpent".

 _ **Peaceful Ones' speech**_

 _ **-** Koatl_ \- Literally translated to "Serpent", Kahuya-Wôìn uses this as an honorific for a male lord of equal ranking.

\- C _hicahui Àcatl-Ahuine_ \- Lady Nine Grass - another name for the Valaë Nienna.

\- _No-coneuhïak - "_ my child"

\- _No-ahatleutli -_ "My Great Speaking Mountain", another honorific for a male lord of equivalent status. Peaceful One's ladies were the only ones who could use this honorific.


	8. Blood Illness

**_Two creepy chapters one after another? I know, I know, by now you are thinking that Ki-Yong is everything but Human! His mood swings, the fact his memory is quite selective. In an universe where the concept of "mental illness" is unknown, I think the idea of having "multiple souls" is a better concept for Ki-Yong constant ethic swings. He can have a moral compass, but he is way too unpredictable for the other characters to trust him. There is a human part in him, true, but I am not an optimistic person. Picture this: if given an weapon (or the opportunity to run free) what would he do? Ki-Yong would likely kill the person if the person closest to him-unless that person provides him with a) power; b) some form of maintaining Sauron far from him. There is no gold that can save you from this psychopath. Contrary to Tolkien's Smaug, Ki-Yong's moral compass would not compass whether he can gain something material from sparing said living creature. Most things he wishes are immaterial._**

 _"All things truly wicked start from innocence." - Ernest Hemmingway_

* * *

A dark and orange horizon blurred all of the latter images. Ki-Yong Kato was certain they were in a different place. He felt it no sooner as the Vala had placed the hand on the dark and corrupted Fëa. Ripples of black and inky substance slithered towards the sorcerer's weak Fëa. They were back in his realm, a thin dome around them both.

Ki-Yong snorted. He recalled that, the time he had threatened the old Clan. He was in fact, the one who had placed the small glowing fish around the presumptuous lord's spear.

Irmo sighed.

« Yes, you were the one who placed that small Soul-Snatcher. But do you know what happened to the man you poisoned? »

« No…Well! It has been a few decades. I remember my own soul parting in two. »

« Your corrupted Fëa divided into two – and the second, the one that turned your hröa to that of a dragon and…well , that Hröa and corrupted Fëa is still alive, not from a far distance, but within you. All I have done until now is to tame it. »

Ki-Yong turned at the old Vala, an exhale of breath escaping his lips; fear began to cripple his senses. The amber-coloured eyes widened at the implications. His hatred for the Gondorians, for any conceited nobleman in general-Humanity-! What would happen were he to unleash that hatred?

Furrowing the bone-like eyebrow ridge, Ki-Yong Kato spoke, his normally calm and cynical voice breaking:

« If that part of my Fëa is unleashed…what will become of Dovaïna? »

« Then you will become the second Kin of Ancalagon, and the Red Dragon and you will become like a two-headed beast. You know whom you have harmed? »

« O great Vala, with all due respect… Those foolish people are unworthy of your mercy! »

« You might think so, Black Seer…but you yourself took out the small Soul-Snatcher from Wan-Kekeschkex, very much aware the more the creature sucked his blood, the more venom it would inject into his veins. »

Suddenly, the demon laughed in pleasure. He was, indeed, aware of how the poison could both control and kill humans.

« Oh…mighty Vala… You know as much as I do. That was not how I went the young lord to die. Yet, the Khaleesi was constantly keeping a watch upon him. I could not do anything…even if the spirit of Sauron himself asked me to. On one side, as you said, I had control of my _hröa_ once again. A few memories I have about that fateful morning was being insulted by the southern prince, and feeling a well of hatred against him, my own powers rising with it. What else could I do? He killed all the remaining members of his disgusting family under my control. Beneath all the magnificence and pride of the mighty State-Cities and the Men of the West, all those Humans cared nothing but for their own survival. It is quite a disappointment for you all Valar, does it not? »

« No. You manipulate mortals through their dreams. You constantly use that dark power- you are asking for the demise of all the good things in the mortal plain! »

At this, Ki-Yong chuckled. His eyes became more human, as he sighed, the former Human-like Hröa assuming a fair and respected middle-aged nobleman, the wrinkles in the pale beige face furrowing. Revealing a ghostly blade, demonic lord assumed a polite posture. As though he were answering curtly to a child, the imposing nobleman snapped:

« All the good things-! The Valaë Yavanna can have her trees; they are beautiful and sacred to my People, to my ancestors. I am merely releasing the world from all the wretched mortals who contaminate it! » Creating with the smoke-like and inky substance that was part of his Fëa, an image of Dovaïna, the demonic sorcerer sighed. « If there is one regret I have, is that I cannot control strong-minded women like _her!_ I cannot force her to love me. »

« By allying yourself to the corrupted Maia, you are merely hastening the process of corruption of your own mind! »

« What is light without dark? What are you without me? I channel part of your little Raw Magic...People would not believe in the mighty Irmo if there were no Seers to prove he exists! What are the Nâzgul but a reflection of the Four Queens had they not yielded to the One Ring? What is love without hatred? » Ki-Yong Kato smiles, an appalling sight followed by the slit-like, ruby eyes. « You know what the Westron Humans call me, do you not? This pale, wraith-like presence is merely the base of a volcano. That's why you had faith I would change my point…Yavanna cannot control me! » He sneered. « What, no witty come-back? Then I shall provide the narration. »

Humming to himself, the ghostly Fëa began to summon with his energy a small lute, and he played the dark song, his deep and authoritative voice a dramatic staccato:

 _In one particular scorching night_

 _In one particular scorching night_

 _A young Lord found himself_

 _Caught by the lethal leaches of the Polluted River_

 _He'd broken a vow_

 _With a stranger, a beauty, a fair and gilded sight,_

 _Betrayal of Politics,_

 _Betrayal to a woman that loved,_

 _And for the rosy cheeks,_

 _The South-west Lady of the Rhûn,_

 _Found her tanned black eyes darken with anger!_

 _The payment for his betrayal was a blood sliver, a_

 _One hundred and fifty two coins of silver,_

 _Sprinkling, shining shimmering_

 _Coins of silver!_

 _The young_ Ajaw now knows

 _How the Dothraki pay their foes!_

 _Groan, scream, roars of war,_

 _The dark tent soon became filled with all of these,_

 _A demonic gleam entered the young_ Ajaw's eyes,

 _In an instant obsidian daggers to orbs of thousand seas_

 _Were turned,_

 _And he drew his obsidian atlatl,_

Slashing _the foreign fair Northern maiden,_

 _No thoughts of remorse or love were in those jaded_

 _Spheres!_

 _Jingling of daggers and swords erupted,_

 _And the young_ Ajaw _allowed_

 _His other family members_

 _To pay the Dothraki fee!_

 _The South of the Many Trees People pleaded,_

 _For the Dothraki Lord and the Rhûn Lady_

 _To subside,_

 _But She had taken her Blood Brother 's vows,_

 _And to break it,_

 _Meant no right to life!_

 _And the maiden with honey in her hair_

 _Controlled by the Dothraki Lord,_

 _Half-dead,_

 _Showed the still-beating,_

 _Still beating and crimson heart,_

 _Oh, how the young_ Säkhuiyanjin Lady _laughed!_

 _« This girl with maize in her hair_

 _She has paid with her gold_

 _She has paid with the blood_

 _in her beating heart,_

 _The insult and dishonour_

 _Her husband has given to me! »_

 _The West will remember this,_

 _The maiden with golden hair thought,_

 _And they'll have all your red, copper skins!_

 _Now the young Many-Southern Tree_ Ajaw knows,

 _How the Dothraki pay their foes!_

 _A foreign Queen entered into_

 _The poor death-bed,_

 _There were daggers,_

 _ _And_ atlatl lay about the young King,_

 _White was his clothing,_

 _And from white balms they painted the ashen, copper face,_

 _Two iron coins rested upon the two empty eye-sockets,_

 _Without any organs to fill the embalmed body,_

 _The young mummified king had no tongue_

 _To plead mercy to the Gods!_

 _A young man, a young playing with the blood coins_

 _Playing with his father's preserved jar of groins,_

 _One hundred and fifty two coins of silver lacked_

 _In his last temple-like facades!_

 _Walking around with a jade sickle,_

 _Walking around the temple, a sickly boy,_

 _Blackened western illness,_

 _Blackened western sickness,_

 _A brown-haired and accursed orphan boy_

 _Now you all know why …_

 _How the Dothraki pay their foes!_

After the demonic sorcerer sang these last phrases, the aura around him made his Hröa seem cruel and terrible, and two big bright yellow eyes glinted, the boots with strapped bells jingling as he danced, two skeletal and claw-like fingers drumming in the lute.

The Vala sighed.

« That is all true. The young Wan-Kekeschkex became possessed with the glowing worm. But if there is one thing _you must_ know, that there is always hope. No darkness can enshroud that! »

At this, the ghostly demon smirked:

« I doubt it. My Hröa is a disguise like any other, Vala. »

« But unlike dragons or the Ring-Wraiths, your motivations do not focus solely in one thing. » The Vala muttered more to himself than to the eerie and green-glowing Hröa, hovering a couple of feet above his veiled head.

A cackle erupted from the strange creature. Ki-Yong was finding this alternative plain most amusing. How he would hate to leave it as soon as Dovaïna tried to wake him into conscience.

« Now, that is where the fun side about this curse lays! I can create a far more pleasing Hröa at will. Only Dovaïna, the poor child, saw me for what I am! »

« Dovaïna-she's afraid of you! »

« Quite the little artist, isn't she? I would guess she had learned it from Scatha himself.»

The calm and deep voice sighed, as though he had seen many other black sorcerers speaking.

« No. Dovaïna is following the path her father shown to her. Perhaps he had a change of heart... You know why?»

A small chortle echoed from Ki-Yong's ghostly Fëa. Hundreds of ten blueish and green will-'o'-the-wisps flickered around the necromancer. He gestured towards the fiery souls, a malicious and proud grin distorting the sunken, corpse-like features.

« That would be a priceless sight...! A Dothraki re-thinking his ruthless and relentless blood-thirsty strategy-If you might call the swinging of endless scimitars and a rout of loud men charging in their pony-sized horses a valid strategy. My father's old man ... He tended to think like that. Or at least, I think he did, that is what the Old and Dark necromancer has told me. My ancestors, my father's father, Hwàng-Nìn-we are not so easily persuaded, O Great Vala! To defeat me, you would have to defeat these thousands of Fëar. These are all the people who died at the mighty force of Eru Iluvatar and the people of Númenor's hands. My fate as a Black Seer was all written before I was even born... »

Suddenly, the souls were torn apart by an immense blasting wave of light and energy, making Ki-Yong's Fëa stumble and fall in the wrinkling and ink-like pond that surrounded the two entities. He had not lied when he had said how many parts of his own Fëa were divided. The black and ink-like substance was one of them.

« You might as well remain silent, demon. You will not harm anyone from the remaining people of Scorpion-Snake Clan, anymore!» Irmo snarled in a commanding tone.

Part of his corpse-like features furrowed, a sceptical expression making the blood-shot and demonic eyes narrow at the bright Vala, slithering coils of black Fëa swirling around feet and transparent claw-like fingers.

« What? Did you figure that out in my old and dusty memory leaves? Yes, one could say Dovaïna and I are related, but only for a few...I suppose five clans separated in my father's side. She's my brother little descendant. Why would I harm her? »

The pair of two brilliant, nearly-amethyst coloured eyes glared from beneath the veil; they seemed to glow brighter and in a more menacing manner than before, the promises of a dreadful punishment firm. However, Ki-Yong could feel Irmo was a weaker Vala than his brother, that he would never harm a Fëa.

« You will not harm her, dark Seer, dark Bard and demon! »

A sacred choir suddenly drowned the demonic sorcerer. Confused, but interested, he glanced at the source of the voices and listened:

It took a moment to realise the choir of voices, crystal clear and angelic, were a sole voice, echoing in the recesses of mortal plain.

« _They call you to the Mortal-Plain. I hope the other_ Fëantur _come to teach you more than that wretched wickedness nestled in that Fëa!_ »

« Wait...What happened with the part I found how Mom was hiding with the little Elves in Imladris? I never remembered that part well, even after that "Vala of the Sea", » Ki-Yong began to sing-song those last words. « Decided I was a pathetic lump of rotten flesh and drowned me! »

A flurry of emotions came between him. He saw Hîthuen trembling, holding a bow and an arrow. The gloves were stained and soaking wet, as the river near Rivendell was coloured in a ruby colour. He could feel the woman's corpse, the blond hair floating next to his boots. Her almond-shaped eyes were filled with tears. Anger, sorrow, hatred, he could saw all of those in her eyes.

 _« I'll rid the world of you, Ki-Yong Kato!_ » He was not sure whether that was his mother, or Hîthuen.


	9. Lady of the Present Time

_**Lady of the Present Time**_

Oragrandh was a woman who visited many Dothraki wives in their first blessed occurrence began to swell their wombs. Her real business, however, was far sinister and dangerous. Some people said how her great-great-grandmother drove a particularly evil dragon from the lands of Westeros. Most Dothraki men called her a "healer" and "Gods-Messenger". Oragrandh was nothing of the sort. She merely knew how to read Mortal Men's minds and was knowledgeable of healing herbs. Oragrandh had a peculiar manner of being a Dothraki widow. First, she walked alongside the Khalaasar of Khal Drogo, she did not remain in Vaes Dothrak with the other widows. Oragrandh had helped Drogo's father extinguishing many demons from the Khalaasar. Thus, that family, the family of the Khal, was indebted to her. Dovaïna felt safe whenever the old sorceress came to the poorest part of the Khalaasar and offered food to the many slaves and their children. Oragrandh also had an amethyst rose circlet around the hair. Whenever the jewel shone brightly in the horizon, it certainly meant many sweets and fruit juice was to be poured in the slaves' cups. Whenever she came, it meant Dovaïna was to have some green tea mixed with relaxing mint. Oragrandh was also known to make the most beautiful "fire-flowers", a mix of powders and minerals that exploded whenever Oragrandh placed a burning torch next to a fuse of a bamboo-wood container. There was often something to smile whenever Oragrandh was close-by. Dovaïna would pour tea into the old woman's cup and offer a few stories from the "motherland". There was something warm in the woman's eyes. One would have guessed her now dry lips would have been beautiful and mesmerising in her youth.

Oragrandh's silver tobacco melded with the silken strands of silver hair.

Making a gesture with both hands, the old woman with a long neck of golden-amber beads made her fingers glow with a green light. Suddenly, a glyph with a few strange and coarse characters appeared to be painted in the tent's main entrance. A spiralling flying and feathered serpent circled the glyph…And then it vanished.

« There…Now no one will hear us. »

« What brings you here, Mother? »

« I was concerned with you, little Dovaïna, Daughter of the Black Feathered Serpent. »

Dovaïna nodded nervously, fingering in the set of facial painting Scatha and Ki-Yong Kato used for their entertaining evenings.

« Mother, you must forgive me: those explosives you have hidden within your cupboard close to your tent…They are here, next to Master Scatha's antidote collection. I thought Master Ki-Yong would cheer up with them. »

« That is not the reason I came here, Dovaïna. » Oragrandh sighed before speaking once again, a disappointed but tender look in her amethyst eyes. « Tell me: how long was your Master Scatha planning to hide this creature of darkness? »

« What do you mean, Mother? »

The frown of amazement was still in the elder woman's eyes as she studied the mumbling and fanged creature; his eyes were still two ruby orbs swirling and shimmering in power. Those sharp and grinning teeth were still hissing the ancient tongue of Magic.

« Ki-Yong's a Mòr-Tharŷlliel. He is of the old magic: he is an unpredictable seer. » Oragrandh said simply, the green and amethyst eyes hard as she studied Dovaïna.

With her heart seizing as she tried to figure what to do, Dovaïna froze in place. Should she use the very same explosives she had stolen from the old healer and flee? Should she talk her way out?

Orangrandh sighed warily. To say she was surprised was an understatement. Scatha was a wilful and conniving worm, but to make such an impressionable young girl the instrument of his evil was something the old woman would never forgive. Was the girl under some sort of spell to instantly make her do the old dragon's bidding? Was her family under some sort of treacherous debt? Many times, Oragrandh had wondered and paused. What had made a Black Seer and a wicked Cold-Drake to cross paths? What had caused the Black Seer to turn into a homicidal maniac? She could read what the ancient and hateful voices whispered to him, and the stories they told were horrifying indeed. Stories of the distant past, stories of Ki-Yong Kato's past, distorted by Darkness and cruelty -that was what the old healer had heard during the two months. Did Ki-Yong's parents act in some dark manner, had they conjured a spell to bind their own son into a dark pact with the Deceiver Sauron? Either way, Dovaïna was his niece for many generations of distance…but a long lost kin was, nevertheless, blood-of-the-same-blood. No matter how many people that Mòr-Tharŷlliel had murdered during that unusually long life, Dovaïna was the last descendant of his "step-brother", Hibiki.

How Oragrandh hoped Dovaïna had not become as insane as the two men living within that tent…had! Perhaps Dovaïna had endured all those years living in slavery not for her bravery or whatever inch of ill-placed compassion. She survived six years of slavery merely for the fact Scatha was waiting. He had been waiting for the man who was, once, Hibiki's brother.

Dovaïna hesitated for a glacial moment; the eyes darted to the other woman.

« I know what a Seer is, Mother! » She snapped, the dagger clumsily hidden beneath the right sleeve.

« Be calm, dear Dovaïna. » Oragrandh murmured softly, holding out a hand as if to gently stop her from attacking. « I promise that I am no threat to you. »

Dovaïna's light green, almond-shaped eyes searched the elder woman's eyes, but she saw no mockery, no deceitfulness in them. She shook, the hands nearly letting the dagger fall from her grasp.

« You will not tell anyone-! You will not tell anyone-! You will not tell a soul that Master Ki-Yong's a Seer, will you, Mother? If someone else finds about this, Master Scatha will have my head! »

« No, he will not! » The elder woman replied, apparently worried she might have summoned one of Dovaïna's nightmares.

 _You will always belong to me, little flower!_ Scatha's words rang in the young woman's mnd as she glanced warily at the tent's entrance. The poisonous words that were as lethal as the poisonous breath that had killed her father. She had had a few minutes to run as fast as her legs could have had afforded.

Dovaïna snapped:

« You think you can stop a creature that can control my mind, even when he is not fiddling with those flasks over there? He has ruined my memories of that day! »

« Dovaïna… he will not be able to break that spell. This spell is far more ancient than anything he can resort! He will not harm you while I am here. »

« What about the….the…the man over there? He accuses himself, he curses himself; he implored my forgiveness for all the suffering he might cause me! He moans…he weeps for me…I cannot make out which of these…which of them is more humane. On one side, Scatha has disappeared for a few days, which-which is a relief! Master Ki-Yong remains the foreign Bard to the…To this clan of Dothraki, and Scatha, a human-like sorcerer! My family would have banished such unpredictable men…but…but my father was killed by…» Tears began to stream from the young woman's eyes. « I owe my life to Scatha, even if he has ruined it! »

« Allow Ki-Yong to see what the Valar have for him…this vision…this vision was not caused by a dark and malicious entity! Ki-Yong will recover…It may take hours- it may take days! But we must not force him to the Mortal Plain! » Oragrandh replied coolly, one hand around the younger woman's shaking body. « Meanwhile…You must rest. »

« No! » Dovaïna screamed; her head wrapped around one hand. « No…If he finds me here…laying around-! I cannot allow Master Scatha to see me like that! »

While Ki-Yong's body continued to mutter the language of Magic, revealing to a select few in this world what he had done and seen, Oragrandh threw a long card-shaped piece of paper, the very same glyph of the curling spiral-like dragon from the other spell glowing with a blueish and heavenly light. A thundering sound rumbled out, the light from the tent's centre blotted out. The tent was suddenly cast in darkness. The hearth's embers faded, sullen. Only Oragrandh could be seen, tall and proud as any noble lady, the light from her silver circlet shimmering in the dimness as a star.

Oragrandh's voice was now clear:

« Dovaïna…Listen not to the dark tales of witless worms and whimsical creatures! You are the last descendant of the Serpent-Scorpion Clan! »

A voice, dark and soft seemed to hiss in Dovaïna's ear:

« You?! You are nothing but my slave, my little pet! »

A choir of muffled, ghostly-like voices surrounded the chamber, as the symbol of the black serpent began to burn in Dovaïna's back. She screamed, an inhuman and terrible voice erupting from her mouth. It was a dreadful pain, as though a thousand Fëa were attempting to prod at her own. Then, she slowly straightened, eyes closed from the excruciating and dull throb in her head. Something like a thick and beaming light flashed. It was as though someone was ripping a leach out of her Fëa... A flash of images passed through her mind, a man with sunken cheeks and burning eyes kissing a young female elf. She shared with him a garland of amethyst-coloured rope: this was the sacred rice-paper knot of Saïkhakhua' royalty. The female elf and the young Shun man passed the green, piercing eyes to a young woman, then a man tattooed with Dothraki spirals and horses painted in his back. A never-ending chain of noble lords and queens sharing the burden of the dark purple knot, each with light brown and green eyes shimmering in a solemn expression, until the image of a woman with sensual green and almond-shaped eyes appeared, sharing the twelve-feet long silken rice-paper knot.

 _Mom!_

« _You! »_ The soft and hissing voice began to growl as a dulling pain began to pound against the girl's head.

« Dovaïna! Do you know who you are?! »

Opening her eyes, Dovaïna glanced with a grieving, melancholic, distraught, and exhausted expression in her face.

« I cannot believe I have forgotten my name! » Dovaïna managed to muster, feeling as though a wound had healed beneath a toe.

« Do not worry. Ki-Yong has forgotten his as well…but you are not him. » Oragrandh replied as she embraced the young woman. « You have suffered enough. Yet, you have not turned into a murderous and cold-hearted woman. »

« I appreciate your comment, Mother! But-! But…How do you know I haven't forgotten my own name completely? »

« For one, that tattoo… Ki-Yong could have told you how he would have loved to have a mark like that…It is ingrained with protective magic. He has studied that to a small extent, but it was enough for him to recognise it. Second, the dagger and the amulet…Your mother was wise enough to give them to you. »

Dovaïna reached unconsciously for the jade-pommel dagger, the figure of a feathered dragon carved in the Valyrian steel.

« A gift-A gift of my Mother. Said my Dad offered it to her the first time she accompanied him to battle. I remember it. »

« You must never forget it. Never forget your family. »

« Mother...What is that scroll? »


	10. Lady of the Past Time

_**Hello guys...I am glad to see you are still passing by. I was out for a long time since flu struck me hard. :) Just to let you know I am still here, and that I haven't forgotten about the other characters in this book. I am not an individualist. But I do want each chapter to focus on a character's P.O.V, like George R. R. Martin. I know his chapters cover lots of stuff, but I am not him, okay? Every time I curse with one of my character's dialogues, tell me, okay? I am used to write my charas with a lot of curse words. If you ever have read old English books, you know "bastard" was a latin word...so in this setup, in this context, I can use "bastard" all I want. Hîthuen probably would say something very bad, but yeah, you need to admit that family is many levels of madness and cruelty.**_

Third Age - Year 1090

Morhuiel…That was the first thought that occurred to the young woman.

 _Is he still alive?_ Then, the rush of first, instinct-driven reasonable and elaborate thoughts arrived like a tidal wave. _Are my wrists bound…? No, the blood is still coursing, and my hands feel as loose as though they were never tied? Can it because of some poison those Ring-Wraiths have forced me to breath? Are they numb?_

Attempting to move her fingers, she felt something coarse, rough. It smelled of something wet, fresh, herbal-like.

 _It's fresh soil…from the woods._

Her feet could move. They touched something velvety, soft and comfortable. There was a fur coverlet carefully wrapped around her. Her throat was parched dry. She involuntarily coughed. Was some twisted hoax the Nazgûl had thought? A free prey, lured to the darkest corners of Mirkwood? Then, Hîthuen shook mentally her head. The Ring-Wraiths had no sense of humour, no matter how cold and hollow they Fëa were. That was what had had frightened her more about this mission: the idea she could have found him, the idea he could have caught her unawares and drug her. Many poisons could have far more sinister consequences than that of the Nazgûl. The mere thought he was as obsessed and as dangerous when she had chopped his father's hand. The nightmares with the horrifying creature, that maniac had plagued her. In a manner, he was worse than the _Nazgûl._

 _I remember a dream where the Creator of the Rings wanted to control the_ Mòr-Tharŷlliel, _but a wisp of greenish smoke escaped from the black sorcerer's mouth, and the old_ Maia _was left for dead, his_ Hröa _turned into a life-size, terrifying, and grinning golden statue._ Hîthuen shuddered, keeping a firm hold on the…thighs?! No, there was a thin layer of wool trousers covering her legs. Someone had changed her soaking wet travelling trousers. There was no doubt about it, the tunic she now wore was far more comfortable than the one she had for weeks.

« _Then why are you panicking?_ » A tiny voice seemed to echo.

Musty and disused furs covered her. They smelled of smoke from a great fire – ash, wooden, rough. Her throat and chest ached.

 _This is the result of one of the_ Nazgûl's _poison…It cannot be anything else._

She attempted to lift her head, to open her eyes. Setting down with a moan, she glanced weakly. Rock, walls of rocks surrounded her. A figure in a dark tunic, stirring with the remains – seemed like a sword – a fireplace.

Seeing her movement, the figure stood up, stepped nimbly through the fire, and sat near her.

« Drink this…» Said a deep, odd and mysterious voice, and a bowl was held to her lips. Strangely enough, the voice knew about her preference on speaking Qenya. It was a language she hardly expected a Man to know. Judging by his height, he could only be a Man…Perhaps a Gondorian?

It was a hot broth, gamy and aromatic with spices and herbs, floating with vegetables and salt. She did not taste any meat. This furthered her suspicions – the man knew she was an _Elleth!_ She winced and tried to avoid him.

« It is nothing of consequence. It will heal you. » The voice said.

She lifted the bowl to her lips and swallowed it, surprised to see there was no trace of a foreign poisonous or corrupted flower, or the root of a sleeping herb. Draining it eagerly, Hîthuen saw how the man carried a wooden piece of furniture, leather straps tied to the wooden object. He pulled the empty cup from her and shifted his body, then placed the bowl next to her. She was a healer, she would have detected any sort of poison, but the man could have, with a small ounce of luck, deceived her into drinking something foul and evil.

The figure was probably smiling, since he chuckled lightly.

« I am glad. You are recovering quickly, young _elleth_. »

 _What are you?_ Her eyes tried to search for an answer, but she was far too tired.

« Me…? I am but a medicine peddler. » the deep voice said, the intonation similar to that poor boy she had met back in her hometown.

The face was all angles, masculine, very much like that of a Noldor nobleman. But there was something incredibly human about the voice. How she hated that he had found her so vulnerable…

His eyes glanced at her with a worried expression, like that of a father would.

« You must rest, young _elleth._ »

Hîthuen's eyes began to wet with tears.

 _O Eru Ilùvatar…do not torment me with illusions, this cannot be my father! And I know only one Man in this world-In this wide world who has the blood of Eldar and yet, a Fëa as corrupted as an Orc's…Please do not be him!_

« Young _elleth_? There is no need to fear me…I am no illusion caused by a dark entity. I am a person who…Who found you in this wood-»

She shook her head weakly.

« You cannot be real…»

 _Ooh Daughter of Finarfin Mother, I am real!_ A voice very similar to the "healer"'s seemed to whisper in her mind. _Why is it you cannot trust me?_ I am _aware your father descends from Elros' blood, and that you are Fingolfin._

Sinking to his knees, the man was left speechless. Could he not believe in a Elvish woman's sadness? A scream of disgust, frustration and horror pieced the cavern.

« Oh, Valar…» The man began to weep next to her lap. She cuddled next to him, no longer caring what kind of person he was, a bard, king, jester, necromancer…It did not matter. A seeping warmness flooded her.

Hîthuen drifted down into sleep, blessedly enveloped by his great heat. She massaged his shaking shoulders.

When Hîthuen woke again, the fire was low. There was a small supply of wood beside her. He seemed very familiar with her history: "Daughter of Finarfin Mother and Fingolfin Father". Yes, he had called her that in her mind. But she was too exhausted during that time. He could have caught something in her mind, and she wouldn't know any better.

 _Speaking of coincidences…where is the Medicine Peddler?_

« You are awaken, young _Elleth_? »

« That I am… My throat seems to be…» A small wheeze and a dull headache interrupted the young elvish lady. « better. »

Faraway echoes suggested an enormous cavern, likely interconnected with other vast spaces by the slow, steady whoosh of dank air high above her. The strange Medicine Peddler walked beside her, the brown eyes holding their own light. Her vision cleared, Hîthuen recognized the angled and oval face, like that of an Elf, but the whole covered by a black leathered mask. Safe for his eyes, she could see a chiselled chin, and lean muscles barely covered by a long tunic. Truly, she had never seen such beauty in the form of…a Man? Was he one of the Eldar, an wandering and ancient Teleri? A spirit of the ancient world?

« There is a holy pool a few yards downwards. Rumoured it was once the same pool where Luthien the Fair bathed. I brewed the small vegetable broth with the same water. Mix it with a few leaves of _Kingsfoil_ , green tea and you will recover in a day or two. »

« I…thank you…»

« I am not as cruel as that insane creature, young _Elleth_. I use my knowledge…for the people who are worth living. Truth, regret, form…. Any form of Darkness, let it be created by the Dark Lord, or by any other sorcerer, I will kill it. »

Hîthuen giggled at this speech.

« My…what are you? »

« Once, I was the step-brother of a talented bard. Our father is the same, but my mother…»

He stepped into the light, and Hîthuen understood why the man had been hesitant to show his face. He was very much like Ki-Yong Kato, safe for the skin colour. He was fair and had a regal air about him. The long and soft black hair cascaded down to his shoulder. Yet, some Shun blood must have reached into the Númenorian, for his eyes were almond-shaped and hooded. His nose was thinner and smaller than the other Men of the West.

« Hi-Arathkays…I have known the name most Men call you. I know not the language, but it is a beautiful one. Feathered Serpent, the Easterlings call you. »

« I hope you can keep that a secret… Hibiki-Zhàng and the Feathered Serpent must remain, for now, two different entities. »

« Who can tell…» Hîthuen muttered, thinking how similar Ki-Yong and Hibiki were. « Do any of the Istari know about what you are attempting to do? Solving the rising Darkness all by yourself? »

« Mithrandir…? Let us say his cleaner philosophy has never impressed me. Ninety _years_ have passed since the arrival of these wizards… Yet, all of they have done is walking through the woods of Middle-Earth! »

« How come skulking, taking a stealthy approach on the Orcs and kill them without any remorse is any better than what Sauron's ambition brought to our world? Your brother's malice and madness…The Deceiver made your father and your brother lose their minds and Fëa to the desire of power and revenge! »

« Orcs are as subtle as a tidal wave in the west. I'd say between my brother and I there are plenty of differences…Would you like sugar with your tea, young _elleth?_ »

« I want to ask you a question… »

The light brown eyes glanced back at her, an unreadable expression furrowing the man's face.

« Yes, young _elleth?_ »

« Are you the same Feathered Serpent that some Easterling tribes are rumoured to worship? I have seen those tribes approaching the West… »

« They have been painting a surreal picture, a dragon who has the ability to change into a murderous human. The Easterling tribes' idea is partially their fault, not mine. »

When she was about to take one sip from the greenish tea, Hîthuen glared at the "healer".

« What about that sobbing? You cried when-when I accused you of being your brother attempting to poison me. »

« We are all mad in our family. Born into a family of fools, you become a madman! Did you not hear? »

Hîthuen's eyes hardened.

« You picking me in these woods…I do not believe in coincidences. Or can it be that you have never heard of my father's murder? »

The man forced himself not to glance at her, the chin dripping with the powdery, herbal tea.

« It was never a matter whether I believed you or not; those Ring-Wraiths were pursuing a young Elf in these woods, the sacred trees of Thranduil's realm…I think any dark creature would attempt to stay away, but when I heard the young _Ellon_ calling you "Lady Hîthuen" and "Princess" in Sindarin, I had my suspicions confirmed. You are the daughter of Obsidian Palace lord. It is a coincidence to meet me here, for I never travel as far as I have been these days. I have heard only what every bard and travelling songstress tells. »

« He destroyed an entire city, killed my mother and my father…what else do you want to know? This is not a tale for the weak of heart. » Hîthuen replied in a cool tone.

« So it is not the Tale of the Fall of Númenor and its Isles…Shun was my father's homeland, his sacred homeland. » His voice rose, speaking the Shun-go language, a refined and polished version of Ancient Easterling language. There were many dialects and many different people within the mortal concept of "Man of the East". However, this language does not seem to fit into either the Harad language or any other speech Hîthuen had heard before. The syllabic and tonal speech made Hîthuen shudder, for it was very unlike the Black Speech. Nevertheless, the hatred was there.

Hîthuen searched for her dagger. A small belt, alongside the quiver with her arrows was intact. He had not fiddled with her flasks of illusion-like poisons and healing potions? She could have tried to look for fingerprints, but the man was wearing gloves. It would be easy for him to say he had not touched any of those provisions.

« Half-cooked _lembas_ and green tea. You came quite prepared, young _elleth._ Those potions…I never saw _one of the Eldar_ touching them. You are a sneaky woman. »

« So…You think this was the fault of the Valar…? »

« Not especially. However, I do appreciate your concern for my people, the people my bastard father has led to downfall. »

She had to act quickly; there was no point arguing with him any longer. He had made a point, he had no wish to harm her. In his mind, she was no threat to him. However, Hîthuen would never trust a man who was so close as kin to the old Scorpion Lord. She needed to find where Morhuiel had been imprisoned, or taken, or worse, murdered by the Orcs working for the Nazgûl. There was one reason why the necromancer from Shun had had that name and that coat of arms.

" _Like he said– born into a family of fools, you are mad yourself! I do not have to be quick to hit him hard!"_

Taking the sheath from her dagger, she made one thrust, narrowing the pommel at his groin.

A painful yelp echoed from the man.

« Ooowie… right in the peanuts! »

 _I have often wondered if a mortal born out of a dragon could have the same resistances as those Urolóki. I suppose it is a mutual weakness._

Struggling to slide through the wet grass, she avoided the man's fingers, her throat sore, but the fingers and legs strong enough to react to a man's attack… A crash echoed. The bowl made of poorly hand-made pottery dividing into a thousand pieces. Skin-changer or not, he would never catch her. In a few sprints, she was two yards from him, a daring glare at him.

A playful, devious smile crawled into the man's otherwise handsome features.

« Nice trick… » He groaned. « I suppose it might be hard for you to trust me. »

Hîthuen glared at him, a hiss escaping the throat.

« I had heard you had a tragic past, but do you truly wish for it to control you, young _elleth_? I said I would not harm you-»

« Morhuiel! » She snapped. « Where is Morhuiel, you disgusting pile of flesh! Playing a kind-hearted host will do you no good when I can remember how my companion, my brother was with me when I passed out! »

« He is there, lying in another pile of furs. I am impressed you have not noticed him yet. »

« Morhuiel! » A gasp was all it came from the young _Elleth._

Suddenly, the man threw a long and elegant dagger at her, missing for twenty feet. Her instincts were correct; he was as cold-hearted as Ki-Yong. A silvery liquid dripped slowly from the dark blade, melting quickly into a white, glowing coil of smoke. A passing-by bat who was eating a few seeds from a vine-fruit gasped, shrieking horribly. It clung desperately to the cave's walls. Other than searching desperately for a place to rest its' suddenly dizzy head, it did not fell, but leaning to a ledge rock, falling unconscious.

Immediately, Hîthuen covered her mouth and nose with the fur tunic, knowing what a poor substitute to a leather mask.

« That was clever of you… Now, allow me to present this little beauty, never mind how I obtained it. The blade is made from the same material as the dark arrows and sword of old that has slaughtered dragons. If you are willing to kill me, go ahead! Take it! »

« _Gohenagîlceleb…»_ The young _elleth_ uttered the name of the chemical element in disgust.

« Yes… there is that matter. » He chuckled darkly. « There are two small ruby-decorated buttons. One releases the poisonous liquid and the other restrains the small hole from releasing it. It is up to you to decide. Your hatred for my family must be great, for you to glance eagerly at it. »

Hîthuen kept staring at him, an unreadable frown on the young and beautiful face.

« Yes, little _elleth,_ I knew you would feel tempted to kill me. Either of these, I use that dagger and kill you, or you kill me…Or you can merely place your trust in me, as though I was a kind and humble knight-in-shining-armour. Your eyes are probably one of the few things that give off that hatred. »

An unbreakable silence was the only answer the wandering bard received from her. She would never allow him the pleasure to see her emotional and crying. He could murder her poor brother.

After ten minutes of silence, she sighed:

« Why are you doing this? »

« You never believed me…whether I nursed you back faster than most healers would, it did not matter to you. We shall see how much you hate me, little _elleth_! Are you willing to die? Are you willing to lose your life, merely to fulfil some ridiculous thirst for revenge? »

« So…You truly wanted something in return! You were never bent in doing a selfless rescue, were you? »

« Come now… would I ever do a thing like that? I would like my work to be recognised, that is all-Of course, I know that you are more resistant than mortal Men! Perhaps that is why I never liked them-they fall so fast! » He laughed in that chilling laugh. That devious, terrible laugh was alike the source of Hîthuen's nightmares.

Throwing her own dagger at the grassy and stone floor, the _elleth_ huffed in frustration. Her oath to murder and take revenge on the family who…On the family who had destroyed a poor young elf's childhood was to be postponed in Morhuiel's safety. He needed her. He needed her to protect him from that lunatic and demented piece of flesh. Her uncle, the Lord of Imladris…Her uncle would have been devastated, finding a twitching, rotting corpse, smelling of that silvery and lethal substance. His heart would crumble were he to see her… even if she survived that event, knowing she had murdered a man simply for vengeance!

« This is check-mate, Hîthuen of the Finarfin. »

She hissed in contempt; a cold gaze set on the man who was busy kindling and feeding the hearth's flames.

« Check-mate indeed, you manipulative son of-»

He snickered, holding a small pottery bowl.

« Tut-tut! We are in a holy ground, my dear. »

« Are you always this charming or am I a fortunate _elleth_? »

« I do not tend to randomly murder tedious elf-boys! That would be predictable, you know? »

« Oh, joy. I am pondering about that blade…If I do not see you tending to Morhuiel- »

The man immediately hushed to the old cauldron, placing a small bowl of the herbal mix into another bowl.

When he was about to handle the bowl to the young _ellon's_ lips, something occurred to Hîthuen's mind. Were the blade truly dripping the dangerous and scalding-hot "Forgetting-Silver", the little bat picking a few _Orhaëkl_ from a few vines would be dead. She could hear its' beating heart. The Forgetting-Silver was lethal in its gaseous form. The only gas that, combined with a powder mix of black-powder and a few other elements was the " _uròloki-aheke"_ – Dragon-ashen. Or, as the Humans called it, sulphur.

She gazed at the travelling medicine-peddler with a threatening glare:

« No, do not tell me, you villain! That was not _Gohenagîlceleb,_ was it? That was only melted silver with a dash of black-powder and sulphur, you failed alchemist! »

« The so-called _Forgetting-star-like-silver_ is an expensive element to obtain, and quite hard to deal with when you are travelling on your own-I cannot make heads or tails how to obtain, even if there was a conniving scheme to get it in my head. »

« I know that! I am, like you, a healer! I know how it can do when placed in a crystal bulb. It can light a whole room! »

« Aww...I would endure many chores merely to see you licking the pouring ale of my cup...»

Before he could say other things, Hîthuen grabbed one part of his trousers.

A groan of pain echoed once again from the man.

« Oow...it stings...The little wasp has a sting in her tail...»

The older sorcerer laughed a little, this time nervously as he fiddled with the young _ellon_ 's flasks.

« Cease your anger, dear _elleth!_ »

« I will cease my anger when you cease talking of tails and stings. »


End file.
